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   1 )Was an early member of the Third Order of St. Francis
   1 Rabindranath Tagore
   1 Nizamuddin Awliya Rose
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   1 George Gurdjieff
   1 Anonymous
   1 Sri Ramakrishna
   1 Sri Aurobindo
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   16 Anonymous
   13 Antoine de Saint Exup ry
   12 Rumi
   12 Percy Bysshe Shelley
   12 Edith Nesbit
   11 Charles Dickens
   11 Cassandra Clare
   10 Charlotte Smith
   9 Christina Georgina Rossetti
   8 Mark Lawrence
   8 Charles Haddon Spurgeon
   7 Colleen McCullough
   6 Charles Spurgeon
   6 Aleister Crowley
   6 Adam Lindsay Gordon
   5 William Shakespeare
   5 Vladimir Nabokov
   5 Thomas Merton
   5 Richelle E Goodrich
   5 Martin Luther

1:The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous.    ~ Rabindranath Tagore,

2:With thorns in the inner world there will always be roses in the outer world, in law-able compensation." ~ George Gurdjieff,

3:If someone places thorns in your path, place roses in his." ~ Nizamuddin Awliya Rose, @Sufi_Path

4:a fool in darkness grabbing thorns instead of fireflies ~ Matsuo Basho, @BashoSociety

5:'He went away sad, for he had many possessions.' This is the sadness that leads to death. The cause of his sadness is also recorded, that he had many possessions. There are the thorns and thistles that choked the Lord's seed. ~ Jerome,

6:How could I bear a crown of gold when the Lord bears a crown of thorns? And bears it for me! (~ )Was an early member of the Third Order of St. Francis, by which she is honored as its patroness. ~ Saint Elizabeth of Hungary, (1207-1231),

7:Where there is knowledge there is also ignorance. Therefore I ask you to go beyond both knowledge & ignorance. The thorn of ignorance has pierced the sole of a man's foot. He needs the thorn of knowledge to take it out. Afterwards he throws away both thorns ~ Sri Ramakrishna,

8:It sullies with its mire heaven's messengers: Its thorns of fallen nature are the defence It turns against the saviour hands of Grace; It meets the sons of God with death and pain. A glory of lightnings traversing the earth-scene, Their sun-thoughts fading, darkened by ignorant minds, Their work betrayed, their good to evil turned, The cross their payment for the crown they gave, Only they leave behind a splendid Name. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, A Symbol Dawn,

9:Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruit. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them." ~ Anonymous, The Bible, Matthew, 7:15-20 (KJV):

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:What does it avail you, if of many thorns only one be removed ~ horace, @wisdomtrove

2:Every noble crown is, and on Earth will forever be, a crown of thorns. ~ thomas-carlyle, @wisdomtrove

3:The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous. ~ rabindranath-tagore, @wisdomtrove

4:They gave our Master a crown of thorns, why do we hope for a crown of roses? ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove

5:Untilled ground, however rich, will bring forth thistles and thorns; so also the mind of man. ~ teresa-of-avila, @wisdomtrove

6:Untilled soil, however fertile it may be, will bear thistles and thorns; so it is with man's mind. ~ teresa-of-avila, @wisdomtrove

7:The more objects you set your heart upon, the more thorns there are to tear your peace of mind to shreds. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

8:We win half the battle when we make up our minds to take the world as we find it including the thorns. ~ orison-swett-marden, @wisdomtrove

9:It’s hard to let go. Even when what you’re holding onto is full of thorns, it’s hard to let go. Maybe especially then. ~ stephen-king, @wisdomtrove

10:Be thankful for the thorns and thistles, which keep you from being in love with this world, and becoming an idolater. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

11:Advance, and never halt, for advancing is perfection. Advance and do not fear the thorns in the path, for they draw only corrupt blood. ~ kahlil-gibran, @wisdomtrove

12:I will no longer wound myself with the thoughts and questions that have surrounded me like thorns: that is a penance You do not ask of me. ~ thomas-merton, @wisdomtrove

13:March on. Do not tarry. To go forward is to move toward perfection. March on, and fear not the thorns, or the sharp stones on life's path. ~ kahlil-gibran, @wisdomtrove

14:We should serve others without any expectations whatsoever. When others throw thorns at us, we should be able to throw flowers back at them. ~ mata-amritanandamayi, @wisdomtrove

15:The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. ~ lord-byron, @wisdomtrove

16:A life with love will have some thorns, but a life without love will have no roses. To the world, you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world. ~ dr-seuss, @wisdomtrove

17:You know... my flower... I'm responsible for her. And she's so weak! And so naive. She has four ridiculous thorns to defend her against the world. ~ antoine-de-saint-exupery, @wisdomtrove

18:Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us. ~ voltaire, @wisdomtrove

19:I don't believe you! Flowers are weak creatures. They are naive. They reassure themselves as best they can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons. ~ antoine-de-saint-exupery, @wisdomtrove

20:if a sheep eats bushes does it eat flowers too? a sheep eats whatever it finds even a flower with thorn? even a flower with thorns. then what's the good of thorns? ~ antoine-de-saint-exupery, @wisdomtrove

21:For a metaphysical treat stop at the Big Sur Inn, which is also a haven for stray cats and dogs. Life along the South Coast is just a bed of roses, with a few thorns and nettles interspersed. ~ henry-miller, @wisdomtrove

22:The land of literature is a fairy land to those who view it at a distance, but, like all other landscapes, the charm fades on a nearer approach, and the thorns and briars become visible. ~ washington-irving, @wisdomtrove

23:Sin is no little thing. It girded the Redeemer's head with thorns, and pierced his heart . . . Look upon all sin as that which crucified the Saviour, and you will see it to be ‘exceeding sinful'. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

24:Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove

25:A man would have to be an idiot to write a book of laws for an apple tree telling it to bear apples and not thorns, seeing that the apple-tree will do it naturally and far better than any laws or teaching can prescribe. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove

26:The man who preaches truth and applies it to the lives of his hearers will feel the nails and the thorns. He will lead a hard life, but a glorious one. May God raise up many such prophets. The church needs them badly. ~ aiden-wilson-tozer, @wisdomtrove

27:He who boasts of being perfect is perfect in folly. I never saw a perfect man. Every rose has its thorns, and every day its night. Even the sun shows spots, and the skies are darkened with clouds; and faults of some kind nestle in every bosom. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

28:You cannot be Christ's servant if you are not willing to follow him, cross and all. What do you crave? A crown? Then it must be a crown of thorns if you are to be like him. Do you want to be lifted up? So you shall, but it will be upon a cross. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

29:The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns. ~ george-santayana, @wisdomtrove

30:And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the true heroine's portion - to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night's rest in the course of the next three months. ~ jane-austen, @wisdomtrove

31:As the rose-tree is composed of the sweetest flowers and the sharpest thorns, as the heavens are sometimes overcast alternately tempestuous and serene, so is the life of man intermingled with hopes and fears, with joys and sorrows, with pleasure and pain. ~ edmund-burke, @wisdomtrove

32:Take this to heart and doubt not that you are the one who killed Christ. Your sins certainly did, and when you see the nails driven through his hands, be sure that you are pondering, and when the thorns pierce his brow, know that they are your evil thoughts. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove

33:God has not made this world to be a nest for us, and if we try to make it such for ourselves, he plants thorns in it, so that we may be compelled to mount and find our soul's true home somewhere else, in a higher and nobler sphere than this poor world can give. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

34:I was born to fight devils and factions. It is my business to remove obstacles, to cut down thorns, to fill up quagmires and to open and make straight paths.  If I must have some failing let me rather speak the truth with too great sincerity than once to act the hypocrite and conceal the truth. ~ martin-luther, @wisdomtrove

35:ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill? ~ henry-wadsworth-longfellow, @wisdomtrove

36:There is nothing more distressing ... than the hard, scoffing spirit which treats the allegation of dishonesty in a public man as a cause for laughter. Such laughter is worse than the crackling of thorns under a pot, for it denotes not merely the vacant mind, but the heart in which high emotions have been choked before they could grow to fruition. ~ theodore-roosevelt, @wisdomtrove

37:It need not discourage us if we are full of doubts. Healthy questions keep faith dynamic. In fact, unless we start with doubts we cannot have a deep-rooted faith. One who believes lightly and unthinkingly has not much of a belief. One who has a faith which is not to be shaken has won it through blood and tears-has worked his or her way from doubt to truth as one who reaches a clearing through a thicket of brambles and thorns. ~ hellen-keller, @wisdomtrove

38:We have not faith, we have not patience to see this. We trust the man in the street; but there is one being in the universe we never trust and that is God. We trust Him when He works just our way. But the time will come when, getting blow after blow, the self - sufficient mind will die. In everything we do, the serpent ego is rising up. We are glad that there are so many thorns on the path. They strike the hood of the cobra. ~ swami-vivekananda, @wisdomtrove

39:Life is about movement, expansion, growth, and actualizing potential. If you stay in a home, relationship, or job beyond the time it is healthy for you, the universe will prod you with thorns as if to say, “It’s time to move to a broader domain.” If you do not heed the message, the thorns will get sharper and at some point you will have no choice but to fly. When you do, you will understand why a once comfortable situation became uncomfortable. ~ alan-cohen, @wisdomtrove

40:Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assuduities of art, with which it would rear dulness to maturity, and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world, and some may be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. ~ washington-irving, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:God put thorns around the ~ Rumi,

2:I wear this crown of thorns ~ Trent Reznor,

3:Look at this tangle of thorns. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

4:There is no rose without thorns. ~ Pam Mu oz Ryan,

5:Through the thorns to the stars. ~ Ottessa Moshfegh,

6:I am thankful that thorns have roses. ~ Alphonse Karr,

7:The rose's rarest essence lives in the thorns. ~ Rumi,

8:I Fall upon the thorns of life. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

9:Your thorns are the best part of you. ~ Marianne Moore,

10:The rose's rarest essence lives in the thorns, ~ Poppet,

11:Water the fruit trees and don’t water the thorns. ~ Rumi,

12:I Fall upon the thorns of life.... ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

13:Rose is not complete without the thorns. ~ Pam Mu oz Ryan,

14:Love speaks in flowers. Truth requires thorns ~ Leigh Bardugo,

15:The rose’s rarest essence lives in the thorns. ~ Ren e Ahdieh,

16:among roses, be a rose, among thorns, be a thorn ~ Idries Shah,

17:Let not the fear of thorns keep you from the rose. ~ Anonymous,

18:Love speaks in flowers. Truth requires thorns. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

19:Truths and roses have thorns about them. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

20:You smell like the roses. I smell like the thorns. ~ C D Reiss,

21:My life is part humor, part roses, part thorns. ~ Bret Michaels,

22:I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed ! ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

23:A crown of roses is also a crown of thorns. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,

24:He that sows Thorns, should never go barefoot. ~ Benjamin Franklin,

25:Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud. ~ William Shakespeare,

26:The only rose without thorns is friendship. ~ Madeleine de Scudery,

27:Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; ~ William Shakespeare,

28:Life is full of paradoxes, as roses are of thorns. ~ Fernando Pessoa,

29:He that scatters thorns, let him not go barefoot. ~ Benjamin Franklin,

30:As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. ~ Solomon,

31:Self-inflicted misery smirks under its crown of thorns. ~ Mason Cooley,

32:The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted. ~ Lord Byron,

33:Love can grown among the rocks and thorns of life. ~ Karen Marie Moning,

34:She was as beautiful as a rose with thorns twice as sharp. ~ Elise Kova,

35:What does it avail you, if of many thorns only one be removed. ~ Horace,

36:Yellowfang crouched among the thorns with Deerleap on one ~ Erin Hunter,

37:Sea rose canes bear thorns, just like their hybrid sisters, ~ Sharon Lee,

38:every time I've held a rose, It seems I only felt the thorns ~ Billy Joel,

39:Thorns pricked at her skin everywhere, poked at her face ~ Christina Henry,

40:To wander in the fields of flowers, pull the thorns from your heart. ~ Rumi,

41:Beware of those who look like rose, for even roses have thorns. ~ Jean Sasson,

42:I was beautiful and dangerous at once. A rose with thorns. ~ Kerri Maniscalco,

43:You throw thorns, falling in my silence they become flowers. ~ Gautama Buddha,

44:He who would lay hands upon us will encounter thorns and barbs! ~ Adolf Hitler,

45:Misanthropy is a suit of armor lined with thorns. ~ Marie von Ebner Eschenbach,

46:To wander in the fields of flowers pull the thorns from your own heart. ~ Rumi,

47:Every man has his thorns, not of him, but in him, deep as bones. ~ Mark Lawrence,

48:We're like fingers on thorns, honey. We know exactly where it hurts. ~ Rupi Kaur,

49:The only crown Jesus ever wore on earth was a crown of thorns. ~ Elisabeth Elliot,

50:To wear the crown of peace, you must wear the crown of thorns. ~ Gordon Lightfoot,

51:As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. ~ Solomon Ibn Gabirol,

52:Life is like a rose. A few thorns don’t make it any less beautiful. ~ G A McKevett,

53:The head that once was crowned with thorns Is crowned with glory now. ~ Tom Kelley,

54:we’re like fingers on thorns honey. we know exactly where it hurts. ~ Rupi Kaur,

55:My flower’s thorns were already dripping with the blood of her enemies. ~ Celia Aaron,

56:Do not fear the thorns in your path, for they draw only corrupt blood. ~ Khalil Gibran,

57:Every noble crown is, and on Earth will forever be, a crown of thorns. ~ Thomas Carlyle,

58:I'd rather let you cover all my roads with thorns than with dead roses. ~ Nema Al Araby,

59:Caught on the thorns of our joys as we run. Emily, Emily, child of the sun. ~ Ruth Stone,

60:God put thorns around love's door to stop anyone who's not a lover from entering. ~ Rumi,

61:Focus your energy on the fragrance and beauty of the petals not on the thorns. ~ Amit Ray,

62:If old age means a crown of thorns, the trick is to wear it jauntily. ~ Clare Boothe Luce,

63:It’s hard to let go. Even when what you’re holding onto is full of thorns, ~ Stephen King,

64:O youth! thou often tearest thy wings against the thorns of voluptuousness. ~ Victor Hugo,

65:The United States reaps the thorns its rulers have planted in the world. ~ Saddam Hussein,

66:Free from passion and desire, you have stripped the thorns from the stem. ~ Gautama Buddha,

67:I’ve never been so hungry that I was willing to lick honey off thorns. ~ Sharon Kay Penman,

68:She who loves roses must be patient and not cry out when she is pierced by thorns. ~ Sappho,

69:The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous. ~ Rabindranath Tagore,

70:They gave our Master a crown of thorns, why do we hope for a crown of roses? ~ Martin Luther,

71:No pain, no palm; no thorns, no throne; no gall, no glory; no cross, no crown. ~ William Penn,

72:If you enjoy the fragrance of a rose, you must accept the thorns which it bears. ~ Isaac Hayes,

73:Mama says it’s just her nature. Some people are flowers, and some are thorns. ~ Jennifer Archer,

74:The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous.    ~ Rabindranath Tagore,

75:The gardener uses both roses in the flowerbed and thorns in making fences. ~ Hazrat Inayat Khan,

76:All around the castle, a briary hedge began to grow, with thorns as sharp as barbs. ~ Jane Yolen,

77:Roses are planted where thorns grow, and on the barren heath sing the honey bees. ~ William Blake,

78:She who loves roses must be patient and not cry out when she is pierced by thorns. ~ Olga Broumas,

79:Throughout Scripture thorns symbolize, not sin, but the consequence of sin. Remember ~ Max Lucado,

80:Do not be tempted by English roses. Their beauty fades, but their thorns are forever. ~ Libba Bray,

81:There are thorns everywhere, but along the path of vice, roses bloom above them. ~ Marquis de Sade,

82:There is darkness in light, there is pain in joy, and there are thorns on the rose. ~ Cate Tiernan,

83:I will soothe you and heal you, I will bring you roses. I too have been covered with thorns. ~ Rumi,

84:Oh,lift me as a wave,a leaf,a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life!I bleed! ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

85:We should avoid planting and cultivating too many thorns in the bosom of society. ~ Abraham Lincoln,

86:Life is bristling with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to cultivate one's garden. ~ Voltaire,

87:Remember, a person who cannot be angry cannot be loving. The roses grow only with the thorns. ~ Osho,

88:She is a rose, Jest. Lovely on the eyes, yes, but such thorns are not to be ignored. ~ Marissa Meyer,

89:You cannot show people only the petals and not the thorns. It's not fair to them. ~ Bethenny Frankel,

90:Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

91:No traveler e'er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road. ~ William Cowper,

92:WHY WAS IT THAT THE TRUTH NEVER COMES SWATHED IN HONEY,BUT RATHER RAZOR BLADES AND THORNS ~ Nana Malone,

93:I will soothe you and heal you, I will bring you roses. I too have been covered with thorns. ~ Rumi,

94:And what does it matter whether God speaks to us from amongst the thorns or the flowers? ~ Francis de Sales,

95:Somewhere between right and wrong lies a garden surrounded by thorns, and I have met you there. ~ Stacey Lee,

96:There is beauty and darkness in everything. Sorrow in joy, life in death, thorns on the rose. ~ Cate Tiernan,

97:It is a rose planted in your heart, and as it's thorns tear you, so does it thrive and flower ~ Sarah Monette,

98:People only picked the pretty, sweet-smelling flowers. The ones with thorns were left alone. ~ Nenia Campbell,

99:When you go to a garden, do you look at thorns or flowers? Spend more time with the roses and jasmine. ~ Rumi,

100:... one of those people with invisible thorns, preventing others from getting too close. ~ Sarah Addison Allen,

101:Rumi says love turns thorns into flowers. This means that hate turns flowers into thorns! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

102:Untilled ground, however rich, will bring forth thistles and thorns; so also the mind of man. ~ Teresa of vila,

103:We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses. ~ Abraham Lincoln,

104:Do not forget about the thorns on the roses when you say that love is like a red red rose. ~ Isabel Quintero,

105:If you want to win hearts, sow the seeds of Love. If you want heaven, stop scattering thorns on the road. ~ Rumi,

106:Some of the most beautiful things worth having in your life come wrapped in a crown of thorns. ~ Shannon L Alder,

107:And what does it matter whether God speaks to us from amongst the thorns or the flowers? ~ Saint Francis de Sales,

108:If love is a battlefield and we all get scars....These were my reminders…my necessary thorns. ~ Sabrina Childress,

109:Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses. ~ Alphonse Karr,

110:Surgery is the red flower that blooms among the leaves and thorns that are the rest of medicine. ~ Richard Selzer,

111:The destroyer of weeds, thistles, and thorns is a benefactor whether he soweth grain or not. ~ Robert G Ingersoll,

112:She could go on asking herself why roses had thorns or she could be thankful that thorns had roses. ~ Ella Griffin,

113:(The way of the slothful man is as a hedge of thorns, but the path of the righteous is made plain. – ~ John Bunyan,

114:You can not pluck roses without fear of thorns, Nor enjoy a fair wife without danger of horns. ~ Benjamin Franklin,

115:And the enticement to seek a rose without thorns is never far away and always difficult to resist. ~ Zygmunt Bauman,

116:How could I bear a crown of gold when the Lord bears a crown of thorns? And bears it for me! ~ Elizabeth of Hungary,

117:You can complain because a rose has thorns, or you can rejoice Because the thorns have a rose. ~ Abraham Lincoln,

118:And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touched by the thorns. ~ Thomas Moore,

119:Give me a rose, that I may press its thorns, and prove myself awake by the sharp touch of pain! ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne,

120:The destroyer of weeds, thistles, and thorns is a benefactor whether he soweth grain or not. ~ Robert Green Ingersoll,

121:Untilled ground, however rich, will bring forth thistles and thorns; so also the mind of man. ~ Saint Teresa of Avila,

122:A man does not run among thorns for no reason; either he is chasing a snake or a snake is chasing him. ~ Clive Cussler,

123:You have it in your power to make your days on Earth a path of flowers, instead of a path of thorns. ~ Sathya Sai Baba,

124:loving others includes brushing up against the thorns of injustice in society. Love wants them removed. ~ Scot McKnight,

125:With thorns in the inner world there will always be roses in the outer world, in law-able compensation. ~ G I Gurdjieff,

126:Everyone will find what he's looking for. Nothing pleases everyone: this man gathers thorns, that one roses. ~ Petronius,

127:Instead of complaining that the rosebush is full of thorns, be glad that the thornbush has roses. ~ Suzanne Woods Fisher,

128:Instead of complaining that the rose bush is full of thorns, be grateful the thorn bush has roses. Perspective. ~ LeCrae,

129:No pain, no palm; no thorns, no throne; no gall, no glory; no cross, no crown. ~ William Penn, No Cross, No Crown (1682),

130:Roses have thorns. That's the price of roses. When you start to forget that, that's when things go wrong. ~ T Kingfisher,

131:Who is wiser: the man who plants flowers along life's way or the man who makes it bristle with thorns? ~ Charles Fourier,

132:Wishes are thorns, he told himself sharply. They do us no good, just stick into our skin and hurt us. ~ Frances Hardinge,

133:The optimist sees the rose and not its thorns; the pessimist stares at the thorns, oblivious to the rose. ~ Khalil Gibran,

134:Untilled soil, however fertile it may be, will bear thistles and thorns; so it is with man's mind. ~ Saint Teresa of Avila,

135:Compassion only plagues those with hearts, much like a field of thorns only troubles those who bleed. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

136:The path of those who preach love, and not hatred, is not easy. They often have to wear a crown of thorns. ~ Nelson Mandela,

137:The more objects you set your heart upon, the more thorns there are to tear your peace of mind to shreds. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

138:The strong hands of God twisted the crown of thorns into a crown of glory; and in such hands we are safe. ~ Charles Williams,

139:We win half the battle when we make up our minds to take the world as we find it including the thorns. ~ Orison Swett Marden,

140:How easily life can end on a misunderstanding. How fragile we all are, like spider silk on a branch of thorns. I ~ Stacey Lee,

141:But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it ~ Colleen McCullough,

142:But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it. ~ Colleen McCullough,

143:The best rose-bush, after all, is not that which has the fewest thorns, but that which bears the finest roses. ~ Henry Van Dyke,

144:I'd hung there in the thorns, and I saw them kill Big Jan. I saw it in the frozen moments the lightning gave me. ~ Mark Lawrence,

145:That is love, son of thorns. We welcome its cruelest blows and when we bleed from them, we whisper our thanks. ~ Cassandra Clare,

146:But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know...we understand...and still we do it. Still we do it. ~ Colleen McCullough,

147:Caught on the thorns of our joys as we run. Emily, Emily, child of the sun." ~ William ShakespeareRuth Stone ~ William Shakespeare,

148:Every man shall find his own desire; there is no one thing which pleases all: one man gathers thorns and another roses. ~ Petronius,

149:rose symbolizes balance—the flower is the beauty and the contrasting thorns are a reminder that love can be painful. ~ Mia Sheridan,

150:The more objects you set your heart upon, the more thorns there are to tear your peace of mind to shreds. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

151:Have you ever loved a rose, and bled against her thorns; and swear each night to let her go, then love her more by dawn. ~ Lang Leav,

152:There was no escaping it. Church and State. Two thorns in the history of Ragmillin and in her own history. ~ Patricia Gibney,

153:I know faith. Therefore, I must embrace the crown of thorns. I seek the truth. Therefore, I must dare to disobey God. ~ Sunao Yoshida,

154:It’s hard to let go. Even when what you’re holding onto is full of thorns, it’s hard to let go. Maybe especially then. ~ Stephen King,

155:There were two saints in the desert, who had sewed thorns into all their clothes; and we seek for nothing but comfort! ~ John Vianney,

156:Upon my weary heart was showered smiles, plaudits and flowers, but beyond them I saw troubles and thorns innumerable. ~ Jefferson Davis,

157:Be thankful for the thorns and thistles, which keep you from being in love with this world, and becoming an idolater. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

158:If you would strew your path with thorns, and plant nettles in your death-pillow, then neglect to "hate evil". ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

159:In a week marred by death and pain, I’d found a single red rose growing in the ruins. I’d take the thorns as they came. ~ Craig Schaefer,

160:I told your daughter that she is like a rose." " True enough," said Lorenzo Daza "but one with too many thorns. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,

161:There’s no such thing as normal. We all have thorns, but most of us carry them inside where no one can see how they hurt us. ~ H L Burke,

162:22The one who received the seed in thorns is the man who hears the word, but the worries of this world and the Jure of riches ~ Anonymous,

163:As the Arabs say, "The nature of rain is the same, but it makes thorns grow in the marshes and flowers in the gardens. ~ Anthony de Mello,

164:Only an acceptance of both the flowers and the thorns can bring you peace. Peace, after all, is the fruit of total acceptance. ~ Rajneesh,

165:I know I am dying, but my deathbed is a bed of roses. I have no thorns planted upon my dying pillow. Heaven is already begun! ~ John Pawson,

166:I told your daughter that she is like a rose." "True enough," said Lorenzo Daza, "but one with too many thorns. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,

167:You do not continue to sit on thorns that continue to prickle you. If the prickling continues, ponder and continue ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,

168:One was too sensitive,too raw,there were thorns and pin-pricks in so many words that in reality fell lightly on the air. ~ Daphne du Maurier,

169:Life was as beautiful as a silky, fresh, sweet-smelling rose, even when that beauty was sometimes complicated by a few thorns. ~ RaeAnne Thayne,

170:Don't be sad that roses have thorns. Be glad that thorns have Roses. Today's the day I worried about yesterday and it didn't happen. ~ Lee Child,

171:And I wondered if the oak could steal the DNA pattern from thorns and incorporate them into its own DNA. Some plants could do that. ~ Faith Hunter,

172:You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns; you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold. ~ William Jennings Bryan,

173:I can alter my life by altering my attitude. He who would have nothing to do with thorns must never attempt to gather flowers. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

174:If you want the moon/do not hide at night.If you want a rose/do not run from the thorns.If you want Love/do not hide from yourself. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,

175:Blushing, she took it from him. She dared not put her nose to it; like everything that Tony had ever given her, this gift had thorns. ~ Nalo Hopkinson,

176:Flowers are weak. They're naïve. They reassure themselves as best they can. They think their thorns make them frightening … ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

177:A crown Golden in show, is but a wreath of thorns, Bring dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless nights To him who wears the regal diadem ~ John Milton,

178:Advance, and never halt, for advancing is perfection. Advance and do not fear the thorns in the path, for they draw only corrupt blood. ~ Khalil Gibran,

179:My flower is ephemeral, thought little prince. And she only has four thorns for protection! And I’ve left her all alone! That ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

180:Most women suffer thorns for the sake of the flowers, but we who wield power adorn ourselves with flowers to hide the sting of our thorns ~ Leigh Bardugo,

181:I will no longer wound myself with the thoughts and questions that have surrounded me like thorns: that is a penance You do not ask of me. ~ Thomas Merton,

182:March on. Do not tarry. To go forward is to move toward perfection. March on, and fear not the thorns, or the sharp stones on life's path. ~ Khalil Gibran,

183:Wings flower-petal-spread And teeth and claws the thorns I grow to seek my Mother’s light Her flesh my flesh, her skin my form— ~ Max Gladstone,

184:I thought that a fairer era of life was beginning for me, one that was to have its flowers and pleasures as well as its thorns and toils. ~ Charlotte Bront,

185:She saw what lurked beneath his pleasant, confident exterior: a network of thorns in the shape of a man, a thing that wore him like a suit. ~ Max Gladstone,

186:You can't build marriage on a foundation of selfish hedonism, because that would be to promise people only roses, and marriage is also thorns. ~ Alan Keyes,

187:Those of you who are scattered, simplify your worrying lives. There is one righteousness: Water the fruit trees, and don't water the thorns. ~ Rumi,

188:As the Persian mystic Rumi instructs us, “When you go to a garden, do you look at thorns or flowers? Spend more time with roses and jasmine. ~ Jack Kornfield,

189:I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines. ~ George Meredith,

190:Don't be sad that roses have thorns. Be glad that thorns have Roses. Today's the day I worried about yesterday and it didn't happen. ~ Lee Child,

191:I know the pain is bad,” said Elizaveta as she drifted through the thicket. “But the thorns will keep you from forcing the darkness to recede. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

192:Some people complain because God put thorns on roses, while others praise Him for putting roses among thorns. ~ Anonymous, The Baptist Observer No. 7 - (1966).,

193:He had to do so, because he learned through the lesson of petals and thorns and a pretty girl that you are only worth how good your soul truly is. ~ Jenni James,

194:If you want the moon, do not hide from the night. If you want a rose, do not run from the thorns. If you want love, do not hide from yourself. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,

195:You are like a living rose among wax flowers. We may last forever, but you bloom brighter and smell sweeter, and draw blood with your thorns. ~ Margaret Rogerson,

196:Roses have both petals and thorns, my dark flower. You needn’t believe something weak because it appears delicate. Show the world your bravery. ~ Kerri Maniscalco,

197:Time grows the seeds that are planted, watered, and fertilized. Plant beauty, grow beauty. Plant thorns, grow thorns. Time will allow for either. ~ Lysa TerKeurst,

198:Although the life of a person is in a land full of thorns and weeds, there is always a space in which the good seed can grow. You have to trust God. ~ Pope Francis,

199:We should serve others without any expectations whatsoever. When others throw thorns at us, we should be able to throw flowers back at them. ~ Mata Amritanandamayi,

200:Flowers are weak, they are naive. They reassure themselves as best as they can. They think they are being frightening, with their thorns. ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

201:The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. ~ Lord Byron,

202:But because there are no rosebushes so foolish as to listen to any priest of any religion, roses go on dancing, and with the roses, thorns also go on dancing. ~ Osho,

203:You may bend, but that will not bring your life to an end. Your refusal to give up is the key; your rose flowers blossom from the thorns of life! ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

204:Not foliage green, but of a fusk colour, Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled not apple-tress were there, but thorns with poison. ~ Dante Alighieri,

205:Remember, Monsieur that roses are not gathered except in the midst of thorns and that heroic acts of virtue are accomplished only in weakness. ~ Saint Vincent de Paul,

206:Don't judge from the outside. Like any beautiful rose has thorns... the more a person appears nice on the outside, the more you should doubt the inside. ~ Gosho Aoyama,

207:My Lord Jesus Christ, for my sake, did wear a crown of thorns; why should not I then, for His sake, again wear this light crown, be it ever so ignominious? ~ John Foxe,

208:Our path dictates how strong we will be and how tall we will grow. Will our life grow into something beautiful, or will we develop thorns for protection. ~ Chanda Hahn,

209:People complain because roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses because I have finally learned not to pick them the next time around. ~ Shannon L Alder,

210:Running through an unfamiliar forest filled with thorns is half an exercise in masochism, and half an obstacle course from the deepest reaches of Hell. ~ Seanan McGuire,

211:There are many things that are thorns to our hopes until we have attained them, and envenomed arrows to our hearts when we have. ~ Victor de Riqueti marquis de Mirabeau,

212:Such kindness wasn't a gift but a goad, scraping against one's skin like a yoke of thorns. She would have preferred him stiff, defensive, even offensive. ~ Lauren Willig,

213:The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. ~ Lord Byron,

214:We are surrounded by the dry thorns of the Inquisition on all four sides; throwing around words burning like fire is the shortest way to one’s grave! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

215:You know...my flower...I'm responsible for her. And she's so weak! And so naive. She has four ridiculous thorns to defend her against the world. ~ Antoine de Saint Exupery,

216:You know...my flower...I'm responsible for her. And she's so weak! And so naive. She has four ridiculous thorns to defend her against the world... ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

217:Only last week I went out among the thorns and said to the wild roses: deny me not, but suffer my devotion. Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. ~ Mary Oliver,

218:Let us try to see things from their better side: You complain about seeing thorny rose bushes; Me, I rejoice and give thanks to the gods That thorns have roses. ~ Alphonse Karr,

219:The world stood pinned on two thorns. One was ugliness. One was beauty. The truth did not lie in the middle or at either extreme. The truth encompassed both. * ~ Elizabeth Bear,

220:Life is thickly sown with thorns. I know no other remedy than to pass rapidly over them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes the greater is their power to harm us. ~ Voltaire,

221:There is no danger of thorns, if one is wearing shoes. One has no fear of ‘lust and greed’ when one knows that ‘God is the only Reality and all else ephemeral. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,

222:I am a thornbush, bristling from the overattention of my parents, and he is a man of a million little fatherly stab wounds, and my thorns fit perfectly into them. ~ Gillian Flynn,

223:If trust must be earned, hasn't God unequivocally earned our trust with the bark on the raw wounds, the thorns pressed into the brow, your name on the cracked lips. ~ Ann Voskamp,

224:Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

225:In her last letter to her love, Percy, before she died, Hyacinth wrote, Somewhere between right and wrong lies a garden surrounded by thorns, and I have met you there. ~ Stacey Lee,

226:Not every thought is a flower; some are thorns. But while a flower may make you fall asleep and too see dreams, a thorn will wake you up and make you to think! ~ Mehmet Murat ildan,

227:Leafpool stood outside the barrier of thorns and closed her eyes. Three tiny shapes filled her mind, three pairs of eyes—amber, green and blue—glowed from the shadows. ~ Erin Hunter,

228:Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you? ~ Pablo Neruda,

229:I mean to have you, Rose, you and all of your thorns. I'm a disagreeable and stubborn bastard, but I'm not a fool. You didn't really expect me to pass you up, did you? ~ Ilona Andrews,

230:You either trust or you distrust coincidence. It 's either small doses of magic pulling you to your appointed destiny or the devil trying to lead you down to the thorns. ~ Toby Barlow,

231:When boys played “guerrilla warfare,” which was their version of cowboys and Indians, the enemy side would have thorns glued onto their noses and say “hello” all the time. ~ Jung Chang,

232:Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us. ~ Voltaire,

233:Duty, though set about by thorns, may still be made a staff supporting even while it tortures. Cast it away, and, like the prophet's wand, it changes to a snake. ~ Douglas William Jerrold,

234:I don't believe you! Flowers are weak creatures. They are naive. They reassure themselves as best they can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons. ~ Antoine de Saint Exupery,

235:Lie beside me, oh my beloved! For thy thorns are more pleasurable than the petals of the world. Hold me in thy arms of hope, for the truth of separation can rest tonight. ~ Faraaz Kazi,

236:Love can be piercing. Love means exposing yourself—all of yourself, every tender part—to being hurt. Because true love is not only the flower, true love is also the thorns. ~ Mia Sheridan,

237:I don't know the pain she's speaking from, but I know it's deep. It makes her hard and yet so terribly soft. It's her thorns and it's her hand reaching out from the thicket. ~ Isaac Marion,

238:I don't believe you! Flowers are weak creatures. They are naive. They reassure themselves as best they can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons... ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

239:But strength still goes out from your thorns, and from your abysses the sound of music. Your shadows lie on my heart like roses and your nights are like strong wine. ~ Gene Wolfe,

240:if a sheep eats bushes does it eat flowers too? a sheep eats whatever it finds even a flower with thorn? even a flower with thorns. then what's the good of thorns? ~ Antoine de Saint Exupery,

241:I have seen one shrike occupy himself for hours in sticking up on thorns, a number of small fishes that the fishermen had thrown on the shore. The fishes dried up and decayed. ~ John Bachman,

242:The spelling mistakes were interwoven one with the other, and Emma followed the kindly thought that cackled right through it like a hen half hidden in the hedge of thorns. ~ Gustave Flaubert,

243:But the world turns, and even legends change; and somewhere there is a border, and sometime, perhaps, someone will decide to cross it, however well guarded its thorns may be. ~ Robin McKinley,

244:Mother used to say, “Roses have both petals and thorns, my dark flower. You needn’t believe something weak because it appears delicate. Show the world your bravery.” Mother ~ Kerri Maniscalco,

245:Sometimes, all you need is permission to feel. Sometimes, what causes the most pain is actually the attempt to resist feeling, or the shame that grows up like thorns around it. ~ Olivia Laing,

246:realized that this cactus with its withered arms symbolized what my life would be. It would consist of thorns and fruit, pain and beauty. My body would age; my soul would expand. ~ Mary Pipher,

247:WEEDS AND NETTLES, BRIARS AND THORNS, HAVE THRIVEN UNDER YOUR SHADOW, DISSETTLEMENT AND DIVISION, DISCONTENTMENT AND DISSATISFACTION, TOGETHER WITH REAL DANGERS TO THE WHOLE. ~ Oliver Cromwell,

248:Cast down by sadness, I walked far into the mountains where the cypresses grew so pointed one would have taken them for arms, where the brambles had thorns as big as claws. ~ Leonora Carrington,

249:Its great thorns pierced the canvas, and its heavy fragrance rushed within, enveloping his sleep, becoming one with his breath, and penetrated the chambers of his exploding heart. ~ Patti Smith,

250:And if not for the caterpillars and butterflies, who will I talk to? You'll be far away. And as for larger creatures, I'm not afraid. I have my thorns...to protect me. ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

251:The end for which we are created invites us to walk a road that is surely sown with a lot of thorns, but it is not sad; through even the sorrow, it is illuminated by joy. ~ Pier Giorgio Frassati,

252:Casement quoted an African proverb: "A man doesn't go among thorns unless a snake's after him—or he's after a snake." He added, "I'm after a snake and please God I'll scotch it. ~ Adam Hochschild,

253:Water the fruit trees, and don't water the thorns. Be generous to what nurtures the spirit and God's luminous reason-light. Don't honor what causes dysentry and knotted up tumors. ~ Coleman Barks,

254:Christ illustrates the purport of life as He descends from His transfiguration to toil, and goes forward to exchange that robe of heavenly brightness for the crown of thorns. ~ Edwin Hubbel Chapin,

255:Joy, joy, joy! Past ages crowd on thee, but each one remembers, And the future is dark, and the present is spread, Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberless head. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

256:You can’t gather much if you won’t go on risk expedition. Leaders never fear the thorns; they’ll still go in for the beautiful roses no matter the number of pricks they’ll get. ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

257:Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us. —Voltaire ~ Robyn Carr,

258:The Path of Thorns bears that name for a reason; it’s a prickly journey from apprentice to archmage, and few sorcerers survive the trip. The rick, however, makes the game worthwhile. ~ Phil Brucato,

259:While there may be thorns and disappointments, while there may be heartache, even heartbreak, there can be peace and comfort and strength from the Lord for those who follow Him. ~ Gordon B Hinckley,

260:Cursed be the ground for our sake. Both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for us. For out of the ground we were taken, for the dust we are and to the dust we shall return. ~ Denzel Washington,

261:My flower is ephemeral," the little prince said to himself, "and she has only four thorns to defend herself against the world. And I have left her on my planet, all alone! ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

262:Every man has his thorns, not of him, but in him, deep as bones. The scars of the briar mark me, a calligraphy of violence, a message of blood-writ, requiring a lifetime to translate. ~ Mark Lawrence,

263:You’re the rose in a world full of thorns, and the rainbow at the end of a storm. You’re the light people crawl through darkness for. You’re the good that balances out all the bad. ~ Jeannine Allison,

264:Dreams are just to show us the way, to give us courage when the road gets hard, and to give us hope when we find the thorns on the rosebush. Dreams are neither evil nor to be rejected. ~ Jerry S Eicher,

265:You know--my flower . . . I am responsible for her. And she is so weak! She is so naïve! She has four thorns, of no use at all, to protect herself against all the world . . . ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

266:It is only by sacrificing everything to sensual pleasure that this being known as Man, cast into the world in spite of himself, may succeed in sowing a few roses on the thorns of life. ~ Marquis de Sade,

267:Ah me! we wound where we never intended to strike; we create anger where we never meant harm; and these thoughts are the thorns in our cushion. - William Makepeace Thackeray ~ William Makepeace Thackeray,

268:He hesitated for a moment. Then he said softly, "I love you, Mother." He took my hand and kissed it, and folded my fingers round the stem of the rose. He had stripped it of its thorns. ~ Elizabeth Peters,

269:If a sheep eats bushes does it eat flowers too? A sheep eats whatever it finds. Even a flower with thorn? Even a flower with thorns. Then what's the good of thorns? ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

270:Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows;Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd bower.Yet, were she willing to be pluck'd and worn,She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn. ~ Robert Greene,

271:Wanting to reform the world without discovering one’s true self is like trying to cover the world with leather to avoid the pain of walking on stones and thorns. It is much simpler to wear shoes. ~ Lao Tzu,

272:For a metaphysical treat stop at the Big Sur Inn, which is also a haven for stray cats and dogs. Life along the South Coast is just a bed of roses, with a few thorns and nettles interspersed. ~ Henry Miller,

273:Love turned the world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals were as ephemeral as feelings, eventually they would wilt and die, leaving nothing but the thorns. ~ Stephanie Garber,

274:The land of literature is a fairy land to those who view it at a distance, but, like all other landscapes, the charm fades on a nearer approach, and the thorns and briars become visible. ~ Washington Irving,

275:Alas! there is no fool like him who wishes for knowledge! It is only through woe that we are taught to reflect, and we gather the honey of worldly wisdom, not from flowers, but thorns. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton,

276:Says Farid, Why do you roam the jungles with thorns pricking your feet? Your Lord dwells in your heart. And you wander about in search of Him. ~ Baba Sheikh Farid, Why do you roam the jungles? ,

277:God made the rose out of what was left of woman at the creation. The great difference is, we feel the rose's thorns when we gather it; and the other's when we have had it for some time. ~ Walter Savage Landor,

278:If you want the moon, do not hide at night. If you want a rose, do not run from the thorns. If you want Love, do not hide from yourself. ~ Jalaluddin Rumi ~ Jalaluddin Rumi #Sufism #poetry#fieldofflowers #moon,

279:Do not conquer the world with force, for force only causes resistance. Thorns spring up when an army passes. Years of misery follow a great victory. Do only what needs to be done without using violence. ~ Laozi,

280:How young and inexperienced I must have seemed, and how I felt it, too. One was too sensitive, too raw, there were thorns and pin-pricks in so many words that in reality fell lightly on air. ~ Daphne du Maurier,

281:The Presidency, even to the most experienced politicians, is no bed of roses; and [Zachary] Taylor like others, found thorns within it. No human being can fill that station and escape censure. ~ Abraham Lincoln,

282:Do not conquer the world with force, for force only causes resistance. Thorns spring up when an army passes. Years of misery follow a great victory. Do only what needs to be done without using violence. ~ Lao Tzu,

283:We have broken up for ourselves the fallow ground of divinity so as not to sow upon thorns, and have levelled the surface of the ground, being formed and forming others by Holy Scripture... ~ Gregory of Nazianzus,

284:Sin is no little thing. It girded the Redeemer’s head with thorns, and pierced his heart . . . Look upon all sin as that which crucified the Saviour, and you will see it to be ‘exceeding sinful’. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

285:Good Shepherd, You have a wild and crazy sheep in love with thorns and brambles. But please don't get tired of looking for me! I know You won't. For You have found me. All I have to do is stay found. ~ Thomas Merton,

286:You can, you must try to seek God in every human life. Although the life of a person is a land full of thorns and weeds, there is always a space in which the good seed can grow. You have to trust God. ~ Pope Francis,

287:The suit caught light and stirred like a bed of black tweed-thorns, interminably itching, covering the man’s long body with motion so it seemed he should excruciate, cry out, and tear the clothes free. ~ Ray Bradbury,

288:And when we are with Alex, I might as well not be there. They speak in a language of whispers and giggles and secrets; their words are like a fairy-tale tangle of thorns, which place a wall between us. ~ Lauren Oliver,

289:Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. ~ Charles Dickens,

290:Wanting to reform the world without discovering one's true self is like trying to cover the world with leather to avoid the pain of walking on stones and thorns. It is much simpler to wear shoes. ~ Sri Ramana Maharshi,

291:And the seed which fell among the thorns, these are the ones who have heard, and as they go on their way they are choked with worries and riches and pleasures of this life, and bring no fruit to maturity. 15 ~ Anonymous,

292:I Have But One Rose In The World I have but one rose in the world, And my one rose stands a-drooping: Oh, when my single rose is dead There'll be but thorns for stooping. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

293:Life is painful. It has thorns, like the stem of a rose. Culture and art are the roses that bloom on the stem. The flower is yourself, your humanity. Art is the liberation of the humanity inside yourself. ~ Daisaku Ikeda,

294:Whether in a suit or in a loincloth people are ignorant little thorns cutting into one another. They seem incapable of advancing beyond the violent tendencies which at one time were necessary for survival. ~ Jhonen V squez,

295:A child who believed in fairy tales. Not the silly Disney ones your mother read to you, but the ones with blood and thorns, with girls who knew that love could kill you just as often as it could set you free. ~ Jodi Picoult,

296:love is not always smooth and easy. Love can be piercing. Love means exposing yourself—all of yourself, every tender part—to being hurt. Because true love is not only the flower, true love is also the thorns. ~ Mia Sheridan,

297:I slept in black tents, blue tents, skin tents, yurts of felt and windbreaks of thorns. One night, caught in a sandstorm in the Western Sahara, I understood Muhammed's dictum, 'A journey is a fragment of Hell.' ~ Bruce Chatwin,

298:No. You surpass us all." Beside me she looked colorless and frail. "You are like a living rose among wax flowers. We may last forever, but you bloom brighter and smell sweeter, and draw blood with your thorns. ~ Margaret Rogerson,

299:In the dust of Her feet are the hosts of heaven/and Her star sequined hair/ Is crowned with a coven of six and seven/Blue suns burning there. —VICTOR H. ANDERSON (IN HIS POEM “QUAKORALINA,” IN Thorns of the Blood Rose) ~ T Thorn Coyle,

300:You must flee from them as you flee from roses that cannot be touched without exposure to the thorns. You must fear an agreeable contagion, the more dangerous because it is hidden. The serpent glides among the flowers. ~ Adam Zamoyski,

301:A man would have to be an idiot to write a book of laws for an apple tree telling it to bear apples and not thorns, seeing that the apple-tree will do it naturally and far better than any laws or teaching can prescribe. ~ Martin Luther,

302:How circumstantial reality is! Facts are like individual letters, with their spikes and loops and thorns, that make up words: eventually they hurt our eyes, and we long to take a bath, to rake the lawn, to look at the sea. ~ John Updike,

303:The way she quietly moved through the gardens, her subtle movements like a rose petal floating on a gentle breeze. Quiet, subtle, beautiful. But Max had thorns. She just kept them hidden; at least she thought she did. And ~ Nashoda Rose,

304:A Halloween flower, if ever there was one, would smell like an onion, have thorns like a rose. With charcoal black petals and vines that entangle, t'would grow under moonlight in mud, I suppose. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

305:Be grateful for challenges because... Had there been no difficulties and no thorns in the way, then [each woman and] man would have been in his primitive state and no progress made in civilisation and mental culture. ~ Anandi Gopal Joshi,

306:Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns. ~ Charlotte Bront,

307:Let us make our way through these low valleys of the humble and little virtues. We shall see in them the roses amid the thorns, charity that shows its beauty among interior and exterior afflictions, the lilies of purity. ~ Francis de Sales,

308:His hair is a crown of leaves, of thorns, of flames. His eyes are blazing with light, more light than all the lights in every city in the whole world, more light than we could ever invent if we had ten thousand billion years. ~ Lauren Oliver,

309:This was why love was so dangerous. Love turned the world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals were as ephemeral as feelings, eventually they would wilt and die, leaving nothing but the thorns. ~ Stephanie Garber,

310:All things on earth have their price, and for truth we pay the dearest. We barter it for love and sympathy. The road to honour is paved with thorns; but on the path to truth, at every step you set your foot down on your heart. ~ Olive Schreiner,

311:Dive deeply into the miracle of life and let the tips of your wings be burnt by the flame, let your feet be lacerated by the thorns, let your heart be stirred by human emotion, and let your soul be lifted beyond the earth. ~ Vilayat Inayat Khan,

312:Let us make our way through these low valleys of the humble and little virtues. We shall see in them the roses amid the thorns, charity that shows its beauty among interior and exterior afflictions, the lilies of purity. ~ Saint Francis de Sales,

313:And bear this in mind; love is not always smooth and easy. Love can be piercing. Love means exposing yourself—all of yourself, every tender part—to being hurt. Because true love is not only the flower, true love is also the thorns. ~ Mia Sheridan,

314:And I learned all those many years ago to stop listening to what people said, and listen instead to what they mean. Some people speak with honey and intend to serve us poison. You, my lord, speak with thorns but yearn for cake. ~ Kathleen Baldwin,

315:Power lived everywhere, beneath cactus thorns, secreted in sparkles of dew, and hidden in the flecks of moonlight that silvered the sage. By calling upon that Power, Singers could pull clouds together and awaken the soaring ~ Kathleen O Neal Gear,

316:This was why love was so dangerous. Love turn the whole world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals were as ephemeral as feelings, eventually they would wilt and die, leaving nothing but the thorns. ~ Stephanie Garber,

317:Rose LeBlanc got her name for a reason. She was full of fucking thorns. She was so beautiful—so ridiculously, unbelievably alluring—that just like real roses, she grew little spikes to protect herself. Because everyone wanted to have her. ~ L J Shen,

318:You know what’s a great metaphor for love? Sleeping beauty. Because you have to plow through this incredible thicket of thorns in order to get to beauty, and even then, when you get there, you still have to wake her up. — Tiny Cooper ~ David Levithan,

319:What are the thorns really telling her? It's why she won't let us see them, why she clings to them--or they cling to her--as though she got herself buried in a bramble thicket and she can't get out and we can't get in to free her. ~ Patricia A McKillip,

320:You know what’s a great metaphor for love? Sleeping beauty. Because you have to plow through this incredible thicket of thorns in order to get to beauty, and even then, when you get there, you still have to wake her up. — Tiny Cooper ~ David Levithan,

321:The sky was murky and deep, like quicksand. There was a young man parcelled up in barbed wire, like a crown of thorns. I untangled him and carried him out. High above the earth, we sank together, to our knees. It was just another day, 1918. ~ Markus Zusak,

322:I made a decision that no one—no one—was ever going to hurt me like they did. And whatever was left of my heart, I surrounded it with so many thorns and spikes that if you ever came anywhere near it, I would willingly and happily hurt you. This ~ Mia Asher,

323:My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns;Love is the fire and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals;The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls. ~ Robert Southwell,

324:Even though one is well advanced in virtue, should he stop mortifying himself, he soon would lose his modesty and virtue - just as fertile soul quickly becomes dry and arid and produces nothing but thorns and thistles if it is not cultivated. ~ John Climacus,

325:I don't know if I was a poseur - I really did love metal, always - but I gave a lot of other things a chance. I wanted to meet, um, girls, so I would check out Depeche Mode. But mostly I wanted stuff with pentagrams and crowns of thorns on it. ~ Brian Posehn,

326:Nick and I fit together. I am a little too much, and he is a little too little. I am a thornbush, bristling from the overattention of my parents, and he is a man of a million little fatherly stab wounds, and my thorns fit perfectly into them. ~ Gillian Flynn,

327:Man was born to live with his fellow human beings. Separate him, isolate him, his character will go bad, a thousand ridiculous affects will invade his heart, extravagant thoughts will germinate in his brain, like thorns in an uncultivated land. ~ Denis Diderot,

328:There are the girls we love, the men we look up to, the tenderness, the friendships, the opportunities, the pleasures! But the fact remains that you must touch your reward with clean hands, lest it turn to dead leaves, to thorns, in your grasp. ~ Joseph Conrad,

329:They say time heals—and I think this can be true—but only if that’s truly the goal here: healing. Time grows the seeds that are planted, watered, and fertilized. Plant beauty, grow beauty. Plant thorns, grow thorns. Time will allow for either. ~ Lysa TerKeurst,

330:10 For as thorns embrace one another: so while they are feasting and drinking together, they shall be consumed as stubble that is fully dry. 11 Out of thee shall come forth one that imagineth evil against the Lord, contriv ing treachery in his mind. ~ Anonymous,

331:a dense wall of greenery bordered it, ...an impenetrable barrier of oaks, evergreen shrubs, blackberry that somehow resisted the frost, and thorns. In the defense department, the witches would make Sleeping Beauty’s evil witch weep with jealousy. ~ Ilona Andrews,

332:He who boasts of being perfect is perfect in folly. I never saw a perfect man. Every rose has its thorns, and every day its night. Even the sun shows spots, and the skies are darkened with clouds; and faults of some kind nestle in every bosom. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

333:You cannot be Christ’s servant if you are not willing to follow him, cross and all. What do you crave? A crown? Then it must be a crown of thorns if you are to be like him. Do you want to be lifted up? So you shall, but it will be upon a cross. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

334:You’ll get hurt!” But she doesn’t listen. She jumps straight out the window. “Wheeee!” she yells as she flies down. She lands on the Frau-Monster, knocking her down, and then bounces into the thorns by the tower as though Frau were a trampoline. ~ Sarah Mlynowski,

335:and muddy. The long sleeves keep getting caught on thorns and branches as I run through the woods. The pack of muttation tributes draws closer and closer until it overcomes me with hot breath and dripping fangs and I scream myself awake. It’s too ~ Suzanne Collins,

336:At that moment I remembered something Cal had told me: that there is beauty in darkness in everything. Sorrow in joy, life and death, thorns on the rose. I knew then that I could not escape pain and torment any more than I could give up joy and beauty ~ Cate Tiernan,

337:I am made Hand of the King which gives me an enormous amount of power, which I use quite ruthlessly - but skilfully - and Dame Diana Rigg joins us [playing political mastermind the Queen of Thorns] and we have a couple of really good sparring moments. ~ Charles Dance,

338:In 1840 I was called from my farm to undertake the administration of public affairs and I foresaw that I was called to a bed of thorns. I now leave that bed which has afforded me little rest, and eagerly seek repose in the quiet enjoyments of rural life. ~ John Tyler,

339:Bushes would pull in their sharp thorns and burst into flower when I watered them or loosened the earth around their roots. Squirrel-like creatures, their long white hair smooth as silk-thread, would scurry up to take berries from my palm. ~ Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni,

340:As the rose-tree is composed of the sweetest flowers and the sharpest thorns, as the heavens are sometimes overcast—alternately tempestuous and serene—so is the life of man intermingled with hopes and fears, with joys and sorrows, with pleasure and pain. ~ Edmund Burke,

341:The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns. ~ George Santayana,

342:This is what an excellent teacher does; he does not follow his disciples' fancy everywhere, but leads them to his own mind, and pulls up the thorns, and then puts the seed in, and does not answer at once in all cases to the questions put to him. ~ Saint John Chrysostom,

343:And now I may dismiss my heroine to the sleepless couch, which is the true heroine's portion - to a pillow strewed with thorns and wet with tears. And lucky may she think herself, if she get another good night's rest in the course of the next three months. ~ Jane Austen,

344:My flower is ephemeral," the little prince said to himself, "and she has only four thorns to defend herself against the world. And I have left her on my planet, all alone!" That was his first moment of regret. But he took courage once more. ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

345:I plucked a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with thorn, And climbing for the prize, was torn, And fouled my feet in quag-water; And by the thorns and by the wind The blossom that I took was thinn'd, And yet I found it sweet and fair. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

346:It is only by enlarging the scope of one’s tastes and one’s fantasies, by sacrificing everything to pleasure, that the unfortunate individual called Man, thrown despite himself into this sad world, can succeed in gathering a few roses among life’s thorns ~ Marquis de Sade,

347:Still, they were two thorns from the same thistle. Their tactics in terrorizing innocent ladies were identical. Their behavior was downright sinful, but what made it even worse was the fact that neither warrior seemed to realize the effect he had on others. ~ Julie Garwood,

348:We can choose to gather to our hearts the thorns of disappointment, failure, loneliness, and dismay in our present situation. Or we can gather the flowers of God's grace, boundless love, abiding presence, and unmatched joy. I choose to gather the flowers. ~ Barbara Johnson,

349:Take this to heart and doubt not that you are the one who killed Christ. Your sins certainly did, and when you see the nails driven through his hands, be sure that you are pondering, and when the thorns pierce his brow, know that they are your evil thoughts. ~ Martin Luther,

350:By what sort of experience are we led to the conviction that spirit exists? On the whole, by searching, painful experience. The rose Religion grows on a thorn-bush, and we must not be afraid to have our fingers lacerated by the thorns if we would pluck the rose. ~ Felix Adler,

351:The thorns thinned out and the trees grew taller and straighter, their branches not beginning until a few feet over our heads. The white, peeled bark of the birches looked buttery in the long, slanting afternoon light, and their leaves were a delicate gold. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

352:God has not made this world to be a nest for us, and if we try to make it such for ourselves, he plants thorns in it, so that we may be compelled to mount and find our soul’s true home somewhere else, in a higher and nobler sphere than this poor world can give. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

353:While the path to wealth is clearly marked, few are willing to adapt themselves to the modest discipline that the journey requires. Instead, most choose the shinier track of debt-driven consumption, which they find further along is covered in vines and thorns. ~ Benjamin Franklin,

354:Christians were squeamish about matters of the body, like foreskins and the monthly flow of women, yet they adored their paintings of Christ’s crucifixion, his hands and feet dripping with blood, and thorns gouging his scalp. There was no fathoming the gentile mind. ~ Roberta Rich,

355:The Christian church [in its true identity] does not persecute; any more than a lily scratches the thorns, or a lamb pursues and tears the wolves, or a turtledove hunts the hawks and eagles, or a chaste and modest virgin fights and scratches like whores and harlots. ~ Roger Williams,

356:You know–my flower, I am responsible for her. She doesn’t even have four thorns to protect herself from harm.’ (Zarek) Why do you love that book so? (Astrid) Because I want to hear the bells when I look up at the sky. I want to laugh, but I don’t know how. (Zarek) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

357:let those who have abundance remember that they are surrounded with thorns, and let them take great care not to be pricked by them; and let those who have little and are very much hemmed in know that God planned [their poverty] to keep them from evil and hurtful snares. ~ John Calvin,

358:Out here the wild things are healthy, the old trees whose roots find sustenance far below the ill-used layer of topsoil, the occasional rosebush gone to green thicket and thorns, the unstoppable kudzu. It is as if they have decided to take back the land for their own. ~ Poppy Z Brite,

359:The problem was you kept waiting for another to call you powerful. You naively believed men like him were capable of loving women who make crowns for thorns. The problem was You loved him so shamelessly, even his lies became holy. ~ Ijeoma Umebinyuo,

360:It is said that every life has its roses and thorns; there seemed, however, to have been a misadventure or mistake in Stephen’s case, whereby somebody else had become possessed of his roses, and he had become possessed of somebody else’s thorns in addition to his own. ~ Charles Dickens,

361:The fruit of sin is thorns—spiny, prickly, cutting thorns. I emphasize the “point” of the thorns to suggest a point you may have never considered: if the fruit of sin is thorns, isn’t the thorny crown on Christ’s brow a picture of the fruit of our sin that pierced his heart? ~ Max Lucado,

362:If you find yourself filled with anxiety, recall the many thorns that Jesus endured, and you will—and with greater calm—bear whatever annoyances may come from others, even serious headaches, and what is usually the most troublesome, the sharp thorns of calumny and slander. ~ Thomas Kempis,

363:I would have saved them.” But the lie tastes rotten on my tongue. Would anything have held William from me? Would anything have held my mother back. Anything? All bonds can be slipped, all thorns torn free. It’s simply a matter of pain, and of what you’re prepared to lose. ~ Mark Lawrence,

364:You know–my flower, I am responsible for her. She doesn’t even have four thorns to protect herself from harm.’ (Zarek) Why do you love that book so? (Astrid) Because I want to hear the bells when I look up at the sky. I want to laugh, but I don’t know how. (Zarek) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

365:Ever since Genesis decreed ‘thorns and thistles’ as a long-term punishment for our misbehaviour in the Garden of Eden, weeds have seemed to transcend value judgements, to be ubiquitous and self-evident, as if, like bacteria, they were a biological, not a cultural, category. ~ Richard Mabey,

366:He once said that just bec ause you can go on at length doesn't mean that you have something to say, it doesn't mean you have a story to tell; just because you've been unlucky or short-changed or fucked over or fallen heavily on the thorns of life - that's no justification ~ Mike McCormack,

367:How many times have answers been so simple and yet someone is determined to take the path of thorns instead of roses?” “It’s not earned.” “That’s a very human thing to say.” “An inclination I can’t help.” “It’s not about things that are earned, but just things as they are. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

368:We must not hope to be mowers, And to gather the ripe gold ears, Unless we have first been sowers And water the furrows with tears. It is not just as we take it, This mystical world of ours, Life's field will yield as we make it A harvest of thorns or of flowers. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

369:For the crown of our life as it closes Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust; No thorns go as deep as a rose's, And love is more cruel than lust. Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division Make barren our lives. ~ Algernon Charles Swinburne,

370:and it is not enough in the world for a wise brain to be ridiculed, it must also be wounded & mistreated; a head that is a treasury of wisdom should not expect any crown other than one of thorns. What garland can human wisdom expect when it sees what divine wisdom received? ~ Juana In s de la Cruz,

371:Do you know why I adore roses?" Shahrzad untied the knot of his tikka sash with deliberate slowness. "I've always loved them for their beauty and their scent, but--" "It's because of their thorns." His muscles tensed at her touch. "Because there's more to them than first meets the eye. ~ Ren e Ahdieh,

372:This is what the Problem means,” he went on. “This is the effect it has. Lives lost, loved ones taken before their time. And then we hide our dead behind iron walls and leave them to the thorns and ivy. We lose them twice over, Lucy. Death’s not the worst of it. We turn our faces away. ~ Jonathan Stroud,

373:My enemies defeated, and yet the sorrow remained, keener, more true, more clean, for I had always owned it. It echoed back to the thorns, the tone of a bell resounding through the years. We're fashioned by our sorrows - not by joy - they are the undercurrent, the refrain. Joy is fleeting. ~ Mark Lawrence,

374:It seemed off that anyone could live behind such a high hedge of thorns, and he began to think it would be no great surprize to discover that Mr. Wyvern had been asleep for a hundred years or so. 'Well, I shall not mind that so much,' he thought, 'so long as I am not expected to kiss him. ~ Susanna Clarke,

375:Sin is self-mutilation, the destruction of personality — when it takes the form of pride, it crowns Goodness with thorns; when it takes the form of dishonesty, it nails hands to a Cross; when it takes the form of hate, it blasphemes the dying; when it takes the form of lust, it crucifies. ~ Fulton J Sheen,

376:He rises from the throne. “Come, have a seat.” His voice is replete with danger, lush with menace. The flowering branches have sprouted thorns so thickly that petals are barely visible. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks. “What you sacrificed everything for. Go on. It’s all yours. ~ Holly Black,

377:No one was taking your crown. Not on my watch. I forged you a throne, angel, and I made it from the bloody, mutilated corpses of every fucker who got in my way, leave you sitting pretty in a pool of blood, wearing a crown of thorns.” He smirked, then his voice filled with reverence. “My queen. ~ Belle Aurora,

378:Hope is like a harebell, trembling from its birth,Love is like a rose, the joy of all the earth,Faith is like a lily, lifted high and white,Love is like a lovely rose, the world's delight.Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth,But the rose with all its thorns excels them both. ~ Christina Rossetti,

379:It took this awful situation for us to realize it. Nick and I fit together. I am a little too much, and he is a little too little. I am a thorn bush, bristling from the overattention of my parents, and he is a man of a million little fatherly stab wounds, and my thorns fit perfectly into them. ~ Gillian Flynn,

380:The feathery palms that lined the drainage canals, the acacia thorns and sycamores, all glistened with the sheen of new, pale-green leaves, and in Khaemwaset’s gardens the vivid clusters of flowers had begun to bloom with an abandon that assaulted the eyes and filled the nostrils with delight. ~ Pauline Gedge,

381:I was born to fight devils and factions. It is my business to remove obstacles, to cut down thorns, to fill up quagmires and to open and make straight paths. If I must have some failing let me rather speak the truth with too great sincerity than once to act the hypocrite and conceal the truth. ~ Martin Luther,

382:That swimming, sloping, elusive something about the dark-bluish tint of the iris which seemed still to retain the shadows it had absorbed of ancient, fabulous forests where there were more birds than tigers and more fruit than thorns, and where, in some dappled depth, man's mind had been born. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

383:Xxii: The Sloe Was Lost In Flower The sloe was lost in flower, The April elm was dim; That was the lover's hour, The hour for lies and him. If thorns are all the bower, If north winds freeze the fir, Why, 'tis another's hour, The hour for truth and her. ~ Alfred Edward Housman,

384:Their fingers are long, like flower stems, ending in leaves where nails should be. Snow-white women with skin like leather and smooth, hairless heads wear crowns of thorns and pale roses. Dresses made of thousands and thousands of dry flower petals that rustle in the breeze like unearthly ghouls. I ~ Zoraida C rdova,

385:...that swimming, sloping, elusive something about the dark-bluish tint of the iris which seemed still to retain the shadows it had absorbed of ancient, fabulous forests where there were more birds than tigers and more fruit than thorns, and where, in some dappled depth, man's mind had been born... ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

386:He picked up one of Lorna's roses and set it in my lap. "Here." I picked it up and smelled it. He poked me in the shoulder. "See what I mean? Thorns don't stop you from sniffing. Or putting them in a vase on the kitchen table. You work around them.... Cause the rose is worth it... Think what you'd miss. ~ Charles Martin,

387:my heart was busy falling into the blackest depths of me, a locale unknown even to Uncle, where it shed its skin, rolled in bile, assumed a new shell, and grew thorns. Thus armored, the resourceful organ climbed the ladder of my ribs and returned to its place. And I did what Pearl would’ve wanted me to. ~ Affinity Konar,

388:A flower was offered to me, Such a flower as May never bore; But I said "I've a pretty rose tree," And I passed the sweet flower o'er. Then I went to my pretty rose tree, To tend her by day and by night; But my rose turned away with jealousy, And her thorns were my only delight. ~ William Blake,

389:The road is covered by jagged serrations of ice hard as iron. I pull aside the boot soles that are strapped to my feet. Underneath, my feet are streaked with cuts and dark abrasions. Thorns, branches and sharp ice graved their signs on me unknown, leaving behind a medley of runes written in some strange tongue. ~ Ned Hayes,

390:Looking down from my throne full of thorns, I glanced at the people on Earth. Oh, man. I despised them. It wasn’t like they were becoming better humans or anything, Devil forbid. In fact, they all roasted in their sin, mayonnaised in their stupidity, tomato-sauced in their envy and anger toward each other.... ~ Cameron Jace,

391:It really is true. It took this awful situation for us to realize it. Nick and I fit together. I am a little too much, and he is a little too little. I am a thornbush, bristling from the overattention of my parents, and he is a man of a million little fatherly stab wounds, and my thorns fit perfectly into them. ~ Gillian Flynn,

392:Nobody’s going to save you. No one’s going to cut you down, cut the thorns thick around you. No one’s going to storm the castle walls nor kiss awake your birth, climb down your hair, nor mount you onto the white steed. There is no one who will feed the yearning. Face it. You will have to do, do it yourself. ~ Gloria E Anzald a,

393:Nobody’s going to save you. No one’s going to cut you down, cut the thorns thick around you. No one’s going to storm the castle walls nor kiss awake your birth, climb down your hair, nor mount you onto the white steed. There is no one who will feed the yearning. Face it. You will have to do, do it yourself. ~ Gloria E Anzaldua,

394:Do not resent your place in the story. Do not imagine yourself elsewhere. Do not close your eyes and picture a world without thorns, without shadows, without hawks. Change this world. Use your body like a tool meant to be used up, discarded, and replaced. Better every life you touch. We will reach the final chapter. ~ N D Wilson,

395:He Is looking at me through the smoke, across the fence. He never takes his eyes off me. His hair Is a crown of leaves, of thorns, of flames. His eyes are blazing with light, more light than all the lights in every city in the whole world, more light than we could ever invent If we had ten thousand billion years. ~ Lauren Oliver,

396:The thing about happiness is that it doesn't help you to grow; only unhappiness does that. So I'm grateful that my bed of roses was made up equally of blossoms and thorns. I've had a privileged, creative, exciting life, and I think that the parts that were less joyous were preparing me, testing me, strengthening me. ~ Lana Turner,

397:I remembered a parable that Jesus told to the disciples, the one about the sower of seeds. The seeds planted along the road get stepped on and damaged, those planted in rocky soil can’t take root, and the ones planted in the thorns get tangled in the barbs. But the seeds planted on fertile soil live and prosper. ~ William Kamkwamba,

398:But I think St. Peter and the twelve Apostles would have been rather surprised at the concept that Christ had been scourged and beaten by soldiers, cursed and crowned with thorns and subjected to unutterable contempt and finally nailed to the Cross and left to bleed to death in order that we might all become gentlemen. ~ Thomas Merton,

399:hands. Do not resent your place in the story. Do not imagine yourself elsewhere. Do not close your eyes and picture a world without thorns, without shadows, without hawks. Change this world. Use your body like a tool meant to be used up, discarded, and replaced. Better every life you touch. We will reach the final chapter. ~ N D Wilson,

400:He draws asparagus and cabbages, but he's obsessed with artichokes. He draws them more than any other vegetable. Why artichokes?" George drained his glass. "The artichoke is a sexy beast. Thorns to cut you, leaves to peel, lighter and lighter as you strip away the outer layers, until you reach the soft heart's core. ~ Allegra Goodman,

401:The bare branches were silvered with frost. The berries of the holly tree looked white with rime. Old Marie said that all holly berries had once been white, but that the crown of thorns had been made of holly, and the berries had turned red when touched with Jesus's blood. She had a story to explain everything, Old Marie. ~ Kate Forsyth,

402:Zeena's first published sermon at 7 years old. From “The Cloven Hoof” periodical, 1970, San Francisco, CA, USA.: “The question, 'What is the difference between God and Satan?,' was put to Zeena LaVey, seven-year-old daughter of the High Priest. Her answer was... 'SATAN MADE THE ROSE AND GOD MADE THE THORNS. ~ Zeena Schreck,

403:But its the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. ~ Charles Dickens,

404:This is not the way these tales end," Calliope said firmly. "This is not the way that things end when they get to be tales," Amatus said, "but since ours is not yet told, we cannot count on it. There were a hundred dead princes on the thorns outside Sleeping Beauty's castle, and I'm sure many of them were splendid fellows. ~ John Barnes,

405:I was astonished to find that the positions my grandfather had defended were now overgrown and entangled with trees and thorns. I suppose I had developed a sense of reverence for the locations he described in his memoirs and letters - the forts and the high emplacements. I had expected them to have been preserved in some way. ~ Chris Cleave,

406:THE MANDELBROT SET IS the most complex object in mathematics, its admirers like to say. An eternity could not be enough time to see it all, its disks studded with prickly thorns, its spirals and filaments curling outward and around, bearing bulbous molecules that hang, infinitely variegated, like grapes on God's personal vine. ~ James Gleick,

407:In all our ways that prove pleasant, in which we gain our point, we must acknowledge God with thankfulness. In all our ways that prove uncomfortable, and that are hedged up with thorns, we must acknowledge him with submission. It is promised, He shall direct thy paths; so that thy way shall be safe and good, and happy at last. ~ Matthew Henry,

408:Beneath it all I know you are made of soft wind and calm flowing water but on days when you become strong wind and crashing waves be rest assured you did not become less of you do not become the woman apologizing for days when she has thorns from the harshness of the world. ~ Ijeoma Umebinyuo,

409:* * *THE FILES OF RECOLLECTION* * * Oh, yes, I definitely remember him The sky was murky and deep like quicksand. There was a young man parceled up in barbed wire, like a giant crown of thorns. I untangled him and carried him out. High above the earth, we sank together, to our knees. It was just another day, 1918. ~ Markus Zusak,

410:The patients there were mostly teenaged girls, with the occasional boy. I thought of us all as tigers with thorns in our paws. We were beautiful beasts who’d gotten injured by life, by loss or trauma or shock, and if we could just get the splinters out of our paws, we’d be fine. My thorn was the fact that my mother had left me. Megan ~ Luanne Rice,

411:As the conversation turned to the medical experiments Dad performed on the dog that had been dumped in our yard last week, I tuned out and tried to think of what I would get if I crossed an Iceberg rose with a Sunsprite. A nice pale yellow and only a few thorns. Could be interesting. If Grandma were still alive, she’d appreciate it. ~ Kimberly Loth,

412:I usually describe my father as a man given to impenetrable solitude. If I turn the phrase I can apply it to Johnny. Impenetrable happiness. For a long time I couldn't enter his life because his happiness, or appearance of happiness - his unending smiles - locked the door. An ingenious strategy, to surround the thorns with a castle. ~ Elizabeth Hay,

413:Even if the life of a person has been a disaster, even if it is destroyed by vices, drugs, or anything else—God is in this person’s life. You can, you must try to seek God in every human life. Although the life of a person is a land full of thorns and weeds, there is always a space in which the good seed can grow. You have to trust God. ~ Pope Francis,

414:free as he was from the shackles imposed on many other men by honesty, decency, and plain good manners, he moved through the jungle of life with the confidence of an elephant which advances in a straight line, rooting up trees and trampling down lairs, without even noticing scratches of thorns and moans from the crushed. ~ Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa,

415:Her gaze traveled from his father to him, and at that moment he knew his emotions hung upon his sleeve. For once, he was powerless to hide them. Whatever she saw in his face caused her to blush, duck her head in a distinctly un-Marianne-like fashion. And hope blossomed where it oughtn't, the petals catching in the thorns of his dilemma. ~ Grace Callaway,

416:The blood ran in tiny rivulets down his white face, as if from Christ’s Crown of Thorns, his long blond hair flying out as he turned full circle, his hand ripping at his shirt, tearing it open down his chest, the black tie loose and falling. His pale crystalline blue eyes were glazed and shot with blood as he screamed the unimportant lyrics. ~ Anne Rice,

417:You ask me whether I am in good spirits. How could I not be so? As long as Faith gives me strength I will always be joyful. Sadness ought to be banished from Catholic souls... the purpose for which we have been created shows us the path; even if strewn with many thorns, it is not a sad path. It is joyful even in the face of sorrow. ~ Pier Giorgio Frassati,

418:Prayer is a salve for every sore, a remedy for every malady; and when we are afflicted with thorns in the flesh, we should give ourselves to prayer. If an answer be not given to the first prayer, nor to the second, we are to continue praying. Troubles are sent to teach us to pray; and are continued, to teach us to continue instant in prayer. ~ Matthew Henry,

419:Are you not moved to tears and bitter compassion, when you behold the only Son of God seized by the most impious, dragged away, mocked, scourged, buffeted, spit upon, crowned with thorns, hung upon the infamous cross between two thieves, finally in such a horrible and execrable manner suffering death, for your salvation and that of the world? ~ Peter Abelard,

420:O ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfill? ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,

421:You are not the pain you feel, nor are you the part that periodically stresses out. None of these disturbances have anything to do with you. You are the one who notices these things. Because your consciousness is separate and aware of these things, you can free yourself. To free yourself of your inner thorns, you simply stop playing with them. ~ Michael A Singer,

422:Nobody’s going to save you. No one’s going to cut you down cut the thorns around you. No one’s going to storm the castle walls nor kiss awake your birth, climb down your hair, nor mount you onto the white steed. There is no one who will feed the yearning. Face it. You will have to do, do it yourself. ~ Gloria E Anzald a,

423:Each stem of the rosebush intertwines with the others, a medley of splendor. Like life, it is exquisiteness intermixed with thorns. A prick if you touch without caution. People often make the mistake of believing the rose’s magnificence is just in the flower, failing to see the whole picture. But the thorn is there to protect, to keep the rose safe. ~ Sejal Badani,

424:Try Not to bleed so much on the thorns," he said as I jabbed myself in the palm and hissed in pain. "Right Now, anyone could follow us, and you are leaving a very easy trail." Right, 'cause I'm bleeding all over the place for shits and giggles." A Bramble caught my hair, and I yanked it free with a painful tearing sound. -Grimalkin and Meghan ~ Julie Kagawa,

425:Roses have thorns. Most gardeners use gloves to prune because they want to protect their hands. But I find that if I use gloves, I don’t get to know the roses intimately. I can tell if my plants are diseased because I feel it in the blooms, leaves, and stems. My hands bear many scars from thorns. But they are worth the pain, for from pain comes beauty. ~ Kimberly Loth,

426:There is nothing more distressing ... than the hard, scoffing spirit which treats the allegation of dishonesty in a public man as a cause for laughter. Such laughter is worse than the crackling of thorns under a pot, for it denotes not merely the vacant mind, but the heart in which high emotions have been choked before they could grow to fruition. ~ Theodore Roosevelt,

427:Nature is evil. Nature is conflict, violence, betrayal; worms that crawl through the skin and breen in the gut; thorns that poison; snakes that fight in writhing, heaving masses until all lie dead from another's poison. From nature we learned to tear the flesh off the bone and suck out the blook - and to enjoy it. Do you want to return to that state? I do not. ~ Donna Boyd,

428:A man wants to walk across the land, but the earth is covered with thorns. He has two options - one is to pave his road, to tame all of nature into compliance. The other is to make sandals. Making sandals is the internal solution...it does not base success on a submissive world or overpowering force, but on intelligent preparation and cultivated resilience. ~ Joshua Waitzkin,

429:The head that once was crowned with thorns Is crowned with glory now; A royal diadem adorns The mighty victor’s brow. The highest place that Heav’n affords Belongs to Him by right; The King of kings and Lord of lords, And Heaven’s eternal Light. The joy of all who dwell above, The joy of all below, To whom He manifests His love, And grants His Name to know. ~ Robert J Morgan,

430:Preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling briar-roses and may-blossoms - bright enough to the eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers. ~ Anne Bront,

431:Preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling briar-roses and may-blossoms - bright enough to the eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers. ~ Anne Bronte,

432:They headed back into the maze of gardens. The shrubberies seemed to crawl. Victoria ignored them, pushing past thorns and brambles and suspiciously roachlike leaves, concentrating not on them but on the pinching grip of Lawrence's fingers. Hmm, she thought. I suppose this is actually somewhat useful. She didn't so much mind holding his hand from that moment on. ~ Claire Legrand,

433:She had wept until she was scrapped raw inside, empty but for the leaden weight of every memory of the life she had left, the grasping thorns of every choice that had brought her to this bleak and howling place. When darkness fell she poured rivers of tears into the wood and soul and stone beneath her, a well of loneliness that felt as though it would never run dry. ~ Kali Wallace,

434:The girl was a walking garden. Flowers and vines had sprouted from within her very flesh, and were looped through hundreds of buttonholes and slits made in her shabby maroon gown for their passage. Once outside they were wrapped around her limbs and waist. The otherwise baggy dress was thus almost grafted to her, stems and thorns pinning the excess material to her body. ~ Lia Habel,

435:We can know what we do wrong even before we do it, but self-knowledge can't affect or change the outcome, can it? Everyone singing his own little song, convinced it's the most wonderful song the world has ever heard. Don't you see? We create our own thorns, and never stop to count the cost. All we can do is suffer the pain, and tell ourselves it was well worth it. ~ Colleen McCullough,

436:What I need most of all is the grace to really accept God as He gives Himself to me in every situation. “He came unto His own and His own received Him not.” Good Shepherd, You have a wild and crazy sheep in love with thorns and brambles. But please don’t get tired of looking for me! I know You won’t. For You have found me. All I have to do is stay found. April 11, 1948, ~ Thomas Merton,

437:Sin a little thing? It put a crown of thorns on Jesus’ head and pierced His heart! It made Him suffer anguish, bitterness, and woe. If you could weigh the least sin in the scales of eternity, you would run from it as from a serpent and abhor the slightest appearance of evil. Look upon all sin as that which crucified the Savior, and you will see it to be “sinful beyond measure. ~ Anonymous,

438:Ty: Just words I like. If I say them to myself, it makes my mind - quieter. Does it bother you? Kit: No. I was just curious what words you liked. Ty: It's not the meaning, just the sound. Glass, twin, apple, whisper, stars, crystal, shadow, lilt. Kit: Whisper would be one of mine, too. Cloud, secret, highway, hurricane, mirror, castle, thorns. Ty: Blackthorns. ~ Cassandra Clare,

439:I think most American churchgoers are the soil that chokes the seed because of all the thorns. Thorns are anything that distracts us from God. When we want God and a bunch of other stuff, then that means we have thorns in our soil. A relationship with God simply cannot grow when money, sins, activities, favorite sports teams, addictions, or commitments are piled on top of it. ~ Francis Chan,

440:Do grant, oh my God, that when my lips approach Yours to kiss You, I may taste the gall that was given to You; when my shoulders lean against Yours, make me feel Your scourging; when my flesh is united with Yours, in the Holy Eucharist, make me feel Your passion; when my head comes near Yours, make me feel Your thorns; when my heart is close to Yours, make me feel Your spear. ~ Gemma Galgani,

441:I thought that a fairer era of life was beginning for me, one that was to have its flowers and pleasures, as well as its thorns and toils. My faculties, roused by the change of scene, the new field offered to hope, seemed all astir. I cannot precisely define what they expected, but it was something pleasant: not perhaps that day or month, but at an indefinite future period. ~ Charlotte Bront,

442:It’s inevitable-as agents of change, magi transform themselves and their world simply by existing. A callow apprentice becomes a cocky sorcerer in a blink of the Devil’s eye; in time, he might ascent to the Zenith or Fall into the thorns of temptation and sin. The Path he walks will follow him, and the echoes of his passing will linger for years, decades, or centuries to come. ~ Phil Brucato,

443:Some people harbour so much thorns inside, it strangles out all the beauty. The kingdom under yer aunt’s keep – smothered by nettles and vines – be a reflection of her heart. A rosebush with nary a rose. It weren’t ye that caused it. It were her own dark devices and hatred that drived her. That ugliness be makin‘ bits way out as we speak. It’ll be what vanquishes her in the end. ~ A G Howard,

444:There was something strangely peaceful about the house, something very rare and difficult to define. It was like a house in an old tale, discovered by the hero one evening in midsummer; there should be a barrier of thorns about it through which he must cut his way with a knife, and then a galaxy of flowers growing in profusion, with monstrous blooms untended by human hand. ~ Daphne du Maurier,

445:I think most American churchgoers are the soil that chokes the seed because of all the thorns. Thorns are anything that distracts us from God. When we want God and a bunch of other stuff, then that means we have thorns in our soil. A relationship with God simply cannot grow when money, sins, activities, favorite sports teams, addictions, or commitments are piled on top of it. ~ Francis Chan,

446:Pagan mythical parallels can be found for almost every item in the New Testament: the Last Supper, Peter’s denial, Pilate’s wife’s dream, the crown of thorns, the vinegar and gall at the crucifixion, the mocking inscription over the cross, the Passion, the trial, Pilate’s washing of hands, the carrying of the cross, the talk between the two thieves hanging beside Jesus, and so on. ~ Dan Barker,

447:Hope Is Like A Harebell Trembling From Its Birth Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth, Love is like a rose the joy of all the earth; Faith is like a lily lifted high and white, Love is like a lovely rose the world's delight; Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth, But the rose with all its thorns excels them both. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

448:It's true, isn't it, in our world, that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns are a single thing- that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns are a single thing- that even the purest light, lacking the robe of darkness, would be without expression- that love itself, without pain, would be no more than a shrug gable comfort. ~ Mary Oliver,

449:She was pretty, he had to admit, with very delicate features. But there was something else, too. There are thorns in her eyes—that was the only way he could express it. For a moment, he thought she might have felt left out because he spoke to her friend first and not to her, but as she smiled, he realised the thorns were always there. A true lady would never have eyes like that. ~ Keigo Higashino,

450:That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it and how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold of thorns or flowers, that never would have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. ~ Charles Dickens,

451:That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But, it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. ~ Charles Dickens,

452:Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. Chapter Ten The felicitous idea occurred to me a morning or two later when I woke, that the best step I could take towards making myself uncommon was to get out of Biddy everything she knew. ~ Charles Dickens,

453:I was not scared, though, and I could not have told you why I was not scared. I trusted Lettie, just as I had trusted her when we had gone in search of the flapping thing beneath the orange sky. I believed in her, and that meant I would come to no harm while I was with her. I knew it in a way that I knew that grass was green, the roses had sharp, woody thorns, that breakfast cereal was sweet. ~ Neil Gaiman,

454:I wish all those involved in the Wikileaks matter in the spirit of truth (rather than as a cheap opportunity to screw with a .gov they dislike) the very best. I hope that they'll bear in mind that truth is not some pure thing that brings light and scatters rose petals wherever it goes. It can hurt people that don't deserve to be hurt. It has thorns. Treat it gently. (From an open letter.) ~ Adri n Lamo,

455:That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day ~ Charles Dickens,

456:There is not a single loophole or curveball or open trench to fall into for the man or woman who walks the path that Christ walks. When He says, "Come, Follow Me" (Luke 18:22), He means that He knows where the quicksand is and where the thorns are and the best way to handle the slippery slope near the summit of our personal mountains. He knows it all, and He knows the way. He is the way. ~ Jeffrey R Holland,

457:At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident. ~ William Carlos Williams,

458:That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. ~ Charles Dickens,

459:That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But, it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. ~ Charles Dickens,

460:Some roads, once set out upon, reveal no possible path but forward. Every other track is blocked by snarls of thorns, steaming fissures or rearing walls of stone. What waits at the far end of the forward path is unknown, and since knowledge itself may prove a curse, the best course is simply to place one foot in front of the other, and think not at all of fate or the cruel currents of destiny. ~ Steven Erikson,

461:I climbed a path and from the top looked up-stream towards Chile. I could see the river, glinting and sliding through the bone-white cliffs with strips of emerald cultivation either side. Away from the cliffs was the desert. There was no sound but the wind, whirring through thorns and whistling through dead grass, and no other sign of life but a hawk, and a black beetle easing over white stones. ~ Bruce Chatwin,

462:On the final stretch of the road we passed three or four hammer-stones set on the verges to honour the thunder-god. Snorri checked for rune-stones around each, but found only a stray black pebble, river-smoothed and wide enough to cover his palm, bearing a single rune. Perhaps local children made off with the rest. 'Thuriaz.' He let it fall. 'Hmmm?' 'Thorns.' He shrugged. 'It means nothing. ~ Mark Lawrence,

463:Lao Tse, village philosopher, believed that the richer a nation is, the poorer it becomes. He believed that knowing war teaches peace, because suffering inhabits glory: Every action provokes reactions. Violence always returns. Only thistles and thorns grow where armies encamp. War summons hunger. He who delights in conquest, delights in human pain. Every victory should be celebrated with a funeral. ~ Eduardo Galeano,

464:And if not the butterflies– and the caterpillars– who will call upon me? You will be far away. . . as for the large animals– I am not at all afraid of any of them. I have my claws.” And, navely, she showed her four thorns. Then she added: “Don’t linger like this. You have decided to go away. Now go!” For she did not want him to see her crying. She was such a proud flower. . . ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

465:When a man gives you a rose what you see may not be what he intends. You may think he sees you as delicate or frail. Perhaps you dislike a suitor who considers you all sweet and nothing else. Perhaps the stem is thorned, and you assume he thinks you likely to hurt a hand too quick to touch. But if he trims the thorns you might think he has no liking for a thing that can defend itself with sharpness. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

466:Old Flossie settle down on the other side of What-the-Dickens and dragged some handiwork out of a sack. She armed herself with two thorns shaped into knitting needles. A wodge of curlicued metallic scrubbing pad supplied the threat. 'I knit handcuffs as a hobby,' explained Old Flossie happily, and set to work. 'Idle hands get up to no good, so I like to be prepared in case I meet up with any idle hands. ~ Gregory Maguire,

467:Thunder rumbled. My heart beat faster. I turned away from Evernight for the last time and looked back at the flower as it trembled upon its branch. A single petal was torn away by the wind. Pushing my hands through the thorns, I felt lashes of pain across my skin, but i kept going determined. But when my fingertip touched the flower, it instantly darkened, withering and drying as each petal turned black. ~ Claudia Gray,

468:The experience I learned was that … if you leave decision to the public, you can be killed… I felt really violated: they cut my clothes, stuck rose thorns in my stomach, one person aimed the gun at my head, and another took it away. It created an aggressive atmosphere. After exactly 6 hours, as planned, I stood up and started walking toward the public. Everyone ran away, escaping an actual confrontation. ~ Marina Abramovic,

469:The brambles and the thorns grew thick and thicker in a ticking thicket of bickering crickets. Farther along and stronger, bonged the gongs of a throng of frogs, green and vivid on their lily pads. From the sky came the crying of flies, and the pilgrims leaped over a bleating sheep creeping knee-deep in a sleepy stream, in which swift and slippery snakes slid and slithered silkily, whispering sinful secrets. ~ James Thurber,

470:Everything drifts. Everything is slowly swirling, philosophies tangled with the grocery lists, unreal-real anxieties like rose thorns waiting to tear the uncertain flesh, nonentities of thoughts floating like plankton, green and orange particles, seaweed -- lots of that, dark purple and waving, sharks with fins like cutlasses, herself held underwater by her hair, snared around auburn-rusted anchor chains. ~ Margaret Laurence,

471:The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not what to impale itself, and die singing. At the very instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note. But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it. ~ Colleen McCullough,

472:As he turned around, he discovered Miss Tempest, her back to him, caught in a tangle of rose canes. A rose trapped by thorns. If the front of Miss Tempest was enticing, her backside was even more so. It showed a decidedly feminine figure, with curves and soft angles that could tease a man into believing the lady was just as pliable. And any man who thought that, Pierson reminded himself, would be a fool. ~ Elizabeth Boyle,

473:Entrance into the Old Ways begins with the pricking of a finger with a rose thorn, which produces a drop of blood. This opens the way into the Thorned Path, a system, which uses five rose thorns to symbolize the five arts of Witchcraft that one should master. These arts are Herbalist, Fortune-Teller, Spirit Medium, Mystic, and Magician. We call mastering these aspects 'the gathered thorns' --thus the Thorned Path. ~ Raven Grimassi,

474:This is what people do. They let the fear of their inner thorns affect their behavior. They end up limiting their lives just like someone living with an external thorn. Ultimately, if there is something disturbing inside of you, you have to make a choice. You can compensate for the disturbance by going outside in an attempt to avoid feeling it, or you can simply remove the thorn and not focus your life around it. ~ Michael A Singer,

475:How many thorns of human nature - hard, sharp, lifeless protuberances that tear and wound us, narrow prejudices, bristling conceits that repel and disgust us - are arrested developments, calcified tendencies, buds of promise that should have lifted a branch up into the sunny day with fruit; and flowers to delight the heart of men, but now all grown hard, petrified, for want of culture and a congenial soil and climate. ~ John Burroughs,

476:Marriage, which has been the bourne of so many narratives is a still a great beginning, as it was to Adam and Eve, who kept their honeymoon in Eden, but had their first little one among thorns and thistles of the wilderness. It is still the beginning of the home epic-the gradual conquest or irremediable loss of that complete union which makes the advancing years a climax, and age the harvest of sweet memories in common. ~ George Eliot,

477:To higher or lower ends, they [the majority of mankind] move too often with something of a sad countenance, with hurried and ignoble gait, becoming, unconsciously, something like thorns, in their anxiety to bear grapes; it being possible for people, in the pursuit of even great ends, to become themselves thin and impoverished in spirit and temper, thus diminishing the sum of perfection in the world, at its very sources. ~ Walter Pater,

478:In using the strong hand, as now compelled to do, the government has a difficult duty to perform. At the very best, it will by turns do both too little and too much. It can properly have no motive of revenge, no purpose to punish merely for punishment's sake. While we must, by all available means, prevent the overthrow of the government, we should avoid planting and cultivating too many thorns in the bosom of society. ~ Abraham Lincoln,

479:Just for a moment, flowers appear on the empty, nearly-spring tree. Just for a second, wind through the wild thicket thorns. Self inside self, You are nothing but me. Self inside self, I am only You. What we are together will never die. The why and how of this? What does it matter? [1831.jpg] -- from Poetry for the Spirit: Poems of Universal Wisdom and Beauty, Edited by Alan Jacobs ~ Lalla, Just for a moment, flowers appear ,

480:Marriage, which has been the bourne of so many narratives, is still a great beginning, as it was to Adam and Eve, who kept their honey-moon in Eden, but had their first little one among the thorns and thistles of the wilderness. It is still the beginning of the home epic - the gradual conquest or irremediable loss of that complete union which make the advancing years a climax, and age the harvest of sweet memories in common. ~ George Eliot,

481:It need not discourage us if we are full of doubts. Healthy questions keep faith dynamic. In fact, unless we start with doubts we cannot have a deep-rooted faith. One who believes lightly and unthinkingly has not much of a belief. One who has a faith which is not to be shaken has won it through blood and tears-has worked his or her way from doubt to truth as one who reaches a clearing through a thicket of brambles and thorns. ~ Helen Keller,

482:The lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair: The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. ~ William Shakespeare,

483:We have not faith, we have not patience to see this. We trust the man in the street; but there is one being in the universe we never trust and that is God. We trust Him when He works just our way. But the time will come when, getting blow after blow, the self - sufficient mind will die. In everything we do, the serpent ego is rising up. We are glad that there are so many thorns on the path. They strike the hood of the cobra. ~ Swami Vivekananda,

484:Perrotte frowned. “I’d like to turn a plowshare into a sword ,” she said. “I’d cut our way out of those thorns, and then use it to run my enemies through—” She bit off her next words and swallowed them. Sand stared at her, aghast. She met his eyes, defiant. “What? You don’t like bloodthirstiness?” she asked. “Pardon? No. I’m horrified that you would dull a sword on that thorn brake. I could make you some pretty good hedge shears. ~ Merrie Haskell,

485:They were panting dwarfs, imps gasping for breath, and their beards dragged along the ground. Each carried a strange implement of torture. Some held bloody leather belts studded with iron, some clasp knives and ox goads, some thick, wide-headed nails. Three midgets whose behinds nearly scraped the ground carried a massive, unwieldy cross; and last of all came the vilest of the lot, a cross-eyed pygmy holding a crown of thorns. ~ Nikos Kazantzakis,

486:Why do we need water anyway? We drank before we set out.” “We need to drink from every stream I can find,” I said. “As I’ve said, dehydration is the biggest risk we face out here.” “Okay,” Corey said. “But could you find a path without mud and thorns?” “I’ll make sure the next one’s paved.” Daniel leaned toward me as we walked. “I bet if we bolted, we could lose them in ten seconds.” “Don’t tempt me,” I muttered. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

487:How do you free yourself? In the deepest sense, you free yourself by finding yourself. You are not the pain you feel, nor are you the part that periodically stresses out. None of these disturbances have anything to do with you. You are the one who notices these things. Because your consciousness is separate and aware of these things, you can free yourself. To free yourself of your inner thorns, you simply stop playing with them. ~ Michael A Singer,

488:You came to tell us that the great cities are in favour of the gold standard; we reply that the great cities rest upon our broad and fertile plains. Burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring up again as if by magic. But destroy out farms and the grass will grow in the city...You shall not press down upon the brow of labour this crown of thorns. You shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold. ~ William Jennings Bryan,

489:Mark whirled on them. His eyes were blind, unseeing. “You bring the twins in front of me and you kill them over and over. My Ty, he doesn’t understand why I can’t save him. You bring me Dru and when she laughs to see the fairytale castle, all ringed round with hedges, you throw her against the thorns until their pierce her small body. And you bid me wash in Octavian’s blood for the blood of an innocent child is magic under the Hill. ~ Cassandra Clare,

490:That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But, it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it and think how different its course would have been. Pause, you who read this, and think for a long moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on that memorable day.’ Charles Dickens, Great Expectations ~ David Nicholls,

491:Don't suggest that we are growing old, my Lord. We have only bloomed; and a very nice bouquet we make with our buds about us,' answered Mrs. Amy, shaking out the folds of her rosy muslin with much the air of dainty satisfaction the girl used to show in a new dress. Not to mention our thorns and dead leaves,' added Jo, with a sigh; for life had never been very easy to her, and even now she had her troubles both within and without. ~ Louisa May Alcott,

492:So there you have it: Nature is a rotten mess. But that's only the beginning. If you take your eyes off it for one second, it will kill you. Thorns, insects, fungus, worms, birds, reptiles, wild animals, raging rivers, bottomless ravines, dry deserts, snow, quicksand, tumbleweeds, sap, and mud. Rot, poison and death. That's Nature." "It's a wonder you even step outside of your cabin," I said. "My bravery exceeds my good sense," he said. ~ Lee Goldberg,

493:When a man gives you a rose what you see may not be what he intends. You may think he sees you as delicate or frail. Perhaps you dislike a suitor who considers you sweet and nothing else. Perhaps the stem is thorn, and you assume he thinks you likely to hurt a hand too quick to touch. But if he trims the thorns you might think he has no liking for a thing that can defend itself with sharpness. There's so many ways a thing can be interpreted. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

494:So it is with life. Those thorns, the prickly problems of life, cause us to strive to rise above them and then, as we do, we learn. We learn to exercise true compassion, true kindness - or the thorns, if we let them, cause us to brood, to mourn over our trials. Then we plant the seeds of bitterness, hate, and ruin - weeds. We may reach up for the rose or down to the weeds...the weeds in life that tangle us, strangle us, and cause us to lose hope. ~ James Michael,

495:What good is it to me to have an authority always ready to see to the tranquil enjoyment of my pleasures, to brush away all dangers from my path without my having to think about them, if such an authority, as well as removing thorns from under my feet, is also the absolute master of my freedom or if it so takes over all activity and life that around it all must languish when it languishes, sleep when it sleeps and perish when it perishes. ~ Alexis de Tocqueville,

496:You want worship for what? For what you give? For how you treat us? For what you allow to happen? For the hatred that exists that you don’t stop? For the violence that you don’t stop? For the death that you don’t stop? Man killing man killing women killing children that you don’t stop. And you want worship? You want us on our knees? You want devotion? You want exaltation? You want faith? A crown of thorns pressed into the skull bleeding at the tips. ~ James Frey,

497:Crowned You came to me bearing bright roses, Red like the wine of your heart; You twisted them into a garland To set me aside from the mart. Red roses to crown me your lover, And I walked aureoled and apart. Enslaved and encircled, I bore it, Proud token of my gift to you. The petals waned paler, and shriveled, the thorns started through. er thorns to proclaim me your lover, A diadem woven with rue. ~ Amy Lowell,

498:How are you to meet the swarm of foolish attachments, triflings, and undesirable inclinations which beset you? By turning sharply away, and thoroughly renouncing such vanities, flying to the Saviour's Cross, and clasping His Crown of thorns to your heart, so that these little foxes may not spoil your vines. Beware of entering into any manner of treaty with the Enemy; do not delude yourself by listening to him while intending to reject him. ~ Saint Francis de Sales,

499:Grief is personal. It isn’t something you can share, like a box of chocolates. It is yours and yours alone. A spiked steel ball chained to your ankle. A coat of nails around your shoulders. A crown of thorns. No one else can feel your pain. They cannot walk in your shoes because your shoes are full of broken glass and every time you try and take a step forward it rips your soles to bloody shreds. Grief is the worst kind of torture and it never ends. You ~ C J Tudor,

500:There is more joy in heaven over a converted sinner than over a righteous person standing firm. A leader in battle has more love for a soldier who returns after fleeing, and who valiantly pursues the enemy, than for one who never turned back, but who never acted valiantly either. A farmer has greater love for land which bears fruitfully, after he has cleared it of thorns, than for land which never had thorns but which never yielded a fruitful harvest. ~ Pope Gregory I,

501:Roses surrounded the raven, thorns wrapping around its talons. Runes and archaic symbols stretched along my forearms: Romanian, Sumerian, Gaelic. An amalgamation of all those who had come before me. Marks of alchemy, of fire and water, of silver and wind. They had been carved into me by my father over a period of years, the raven being the last. All except for the one on my chest above my heart. That’d been mine. My choice. It wasn’t magic, but it’d been for me. ~ T J Klune,

502:Not Now, When Skies Are Gold And Blue And you have me and I have you, When there are roses all the way, And April days and nights of May, And life is joy the whole day long-Not now can passion flower in song. But in the dark days by-and-by, When, deep divided, you and I, Shivering among the rose-thorns bare, At last confess what fools we were; Then, neatly wired, a nosegay fine Shall deck your heart--O heart of mine! ~ Edith Nesbit,

503:No one can understand Paris and its history who does not understand that its fierceness is the balance and justification of its frivolity. It is called a city of pleasure; but it may also very specially be called a city of pain. The crown of roses is also a crown of thorns. Its people are too prone to hurt others, but quite ready also to hurt themselves. They are martyrs for religion, they are martyrs for irreligion; they are even martyrs for immorality. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,

504:Willa had always thought her grandmother was sweet, but she'd been one of those people with invisible thorns, preventing others from getting too close. Georgie Jackson had been a nervous, watchful person, not at all frivolous, which Willa had found extraordinary, considering how rich the Jacksons had once been. But after her family had lost their money, Georgie had worked as a maid for various wealthy families in town until she was well into her seventies. ~ Sarah Addison Allen,

505:And these are the ones sown on rocky ground: when they hear the word, immediately they receive it with joy. 17 But they have no root in themselves; they are short-lived. When pressure or persecution comes because of the word, they immediately •stumble. 18 Others are sown among thorns; these are the ones who hear the word, 19 but the worries of this age, the seduction of wealth, and the desires for other things enter in and choke the word, and it becomes unfruitful. 20 ~ Anonymous,

506:Dortchen ducked through a gap in the trees, following a winding path to a small grove of old linden trees, their branches hanging with heavy creamy-white flowers. A hedge of briar roses, with delicate pink-white flowers blooming among the thorns, shielded them from the eyes of anyone walking past. The garden was alive with birdsong. A blackbird looked at her with a cheeky eye, then hopped away to search for worms. The scent of the linden blossoms was intoxicating. ~ Kate Forsyth,

507:It sullies with its mire heaven's messengers: Its thorns of fallen nature are the defence It turns against the saviour hands of Grace; It meets the sons of God with death and pain. A glory of lightnings traversing the earth-scene, Their sun-thoughts fading, darkened by ignorant minds, Their work betrayed, their good to evil turned, The cross their payment for the crown they gave, Only they leave behind a splendid Name. ~ Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, A Symbol Dawn,

508:At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns. Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is. But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips. We will it so and so it is past all accident. ~ William Carlos Williams,

509:...for although we may fully respect our social conventions...it may unfortunately happen that , through the perversity of others we encounter only the thorns of life, whilst the wicked gather nothing but roses. will it not be said that virtue, however fair she may be, becomes the worst cause one can espouse... when she has grown so weak that she cannot struggle against vice? ” - La Nouvelle Justine ou les Malheurs de la vertu, suivie de l'histoire de Juliette ~ Marquis de Sade,

510:He was going to be difficult, then. He always was, and strangely, Courtenay wouldn’t have it any other way. “There is no usually where you’re concerned.” Courtenay was well out of his depths. In the past he had generally preferred warm, affectionate sorts of people. Medlock was made of ice and thorns, venom and gunpowder. It ought to be hard to get anywhere near him, let alone fall into love with Medlock. But it hadn’t been hard at all, had it? It had been as easy as breathing. ~ Cat Sebastian,

511:The Tree Of Scarlet Berries The rain gullies the garden paths And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades. A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist. Even so, I can see that it has red berries, A scarlet fruit, Filmed over with moisture. It seems as though the rain, Dripping from it, Should be tinged with colour. I desire the berries, But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns. Probably, too, they are bitter. ~ Amy Lowell,

512:If a girl were asked which part of a plant she would be, would any choose the root? Blindly clutching the dark earth, never seeing sun nor feeling wind? Toiling there to feed the stem and flower with never a thank-you from them? And who would choose to be the thorn? Thorns protect the plant from pluckers, but who gives honor to them? Nay, any girl would choose to be the bud, opening to the sun, fragrant and beautiful, tickled by bees and butterflies, and looked upon with love. ~ Janet Lee Carey,

513:So you see, the quality of humor is not a personal or a national monopoly. It's as free as salvation, and, I am afraid, far more widely distributed. But it has its value, I think. The hard and sordid things of life are too hard and too sordid and too cruel for us to know and touch them year after year without some mitigating influence, some kindly veil to draw over them, from time to time, to blur the craggy outlines, and make the thorns less sharp and the cruelties less malignant. ~ Mark Twain,

514:... continual hard labor deadens the energies of the soul, and benumbs the faculties of the mind; the ideas become confined, the mind barren, and, like the scorching sands of Arabia, produces nothing; or, like the uncultivated soil, brings forth thorns and thistles. Again, continual hard labor irritates our tempers and sours our dispositions; the whole system become worn out with toil and fatigue; nature herself becomes almost exhausted, and we care but little whether we live or die. ~ Maria W Stewart,

515:WHEN the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide; When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay; Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side, The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream; We will bend down and loosen our hair over you, That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew, Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream. ~ William Butler Yeats, The Travail Of Passion ,

516:Our Lord does not promise to change life for us; He does not promise to remove difficulties and trials and problems and tribulations; He does not say that He is going to cut out all the thorns and leave the roses with their wonderful perfume. No; He faces life realistically, and tells us that these are things to which the flesh is heir, and which are bound to come. But He assures us that we can so know Him that, whatever happens, we need never be frightened, we need never be alarmed. ~ D Martyn Lloyd Jones,

517:There is a land, where the roses are without thorns, where the flowers are not mixed with brambles. In that land, there is eternal spring, and light without any cloud. The tree of life groweth in the midst thereof; rivers of pleasures are there, and flowers that never fade. Myriads of happy spirits are there, and surround the throne of God with a perpetual hymn. The angels with their golden harps sing praises continually, and the cherubim fly on wings of fire! This country is Heaven. ~ Anna Letitia Barbauld,

518:A crown of thorns. Do not underestimate the significance of this crown of thorns. This was not simply a way to inflict pain, to press barbs into His profoundly human flesh. This was an attempt to humiliate Him and mock His power. What better way to diminish the King of the universe than to crown Him with the very curse that hangs over His creation? What better way to triumph over Him than for evil to adorn His head? What could be more humiliating than to have our brokenness rest on Him? But ~ Hannah Anderson,

519:If a painting of a tree was only the exact representation of the original, so that it looked just like the tree, there would be no reason for making it; we might as well look at the tree itself. But the painting, if it is of the right sort, gives something that neither a photograph nor a view of the tree conveys. It emphasizes something of character, quality, individuality. We are not lost in looking at thorns and defects; we catch a vision of the grandeur and beauty of a king of the forest. ~ Calvin Coolidge,

520:The truth is always simple, but the path to it is overgrown with thorns and lined with traps. Our fears and our emotions cloud even the brightest day and the clearest truth. Talk is cheap but actions are bloody. You can't plant the garden until you've overturned the soil. And nothing new can grow until the old dies. Lay your past to rest, so that your future can grow unimpeded by those ghosts. We can't change what we've done, but we can always change what we're going to do." - Acheron ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon,

521:Grief is personal. It isn't something you can share like a box of chocolates. It's yours and yours alone, a spiked steel ball chained to your ankle, a coat of nails around your shoulders, a crown of thorns. No one else can feely your pain. They cannot walk in your shoes because your shoes are full with broken glass and every time you take a step forward, it rips your soles to bloody shreds. Grief is the worst kind of torture and it never ends. You have dibs on that dungeon for the rest of your life. ~ C J Tudor,

522:My past experiences have proven to me that there are people who don't want you to know that they do not know. So they hide it through distraction in the form of criticizing other individuals. There are people who hold ill will toward others who have done the work and achieved the things that they have not, dreamers who never put forth the effort required to attain them in their own lives. My book is not for them. It's for you who realize that the thorns are worth the attainment of the rose. The ~ Raven Grimassi,

523:Do not resent your place in the story. Do not imagine yourself elsewhere. Do not close your eyes and picture a world without thorns, without shadows, without hawks. Change this world. Use your body like a tool meant to be used up, discarded, and replaced. Better every life you touch. We will reach the final chapter. When we have eyes that can stare into the sun, eyes that only squint for the Shenikah, then we will see laughing children pulling cobras by their tails, and hawks and rabbits playing tag. ~ N D Wilson,

524:Quand Meme AGE pauses on his toilsome way To let youth pluck her flowers of play; Flowers are not always, but we may Cut thorns and thistles any day. Would Fate but hold her hand one hour, Then might we pluck love's perfect flower; Yet full security might miss The perfume of one hour like this. For all our joys are snatched from Fate, Through years her ban makes desolate; We wrest our love from doubt and fear, And find it so more sweet, more dear. ~ Edith Nesbit,

525:If pleasure does exist, and if life is necessary to enjoy pleasure, then life is happiness. There are misfortunes, as I know by experience; but the very existence of such misfortunes proves that the sum-total of happiness is greater. Because a few thorns are to be found in a basket full of roses, is the existence of those beautiful flowers to be denied? No; it is a slander to deny that life is happiness. When I am in a dark room, it pleases me greatly to see through a window an immense horizon before me. ~ Giacomo Casanova,

526:I don't have to tell you what this land used to look like," he said. "And you don't have to tell me that I am the one who ruined it. Which I did, with my own hands, and ruined forever. You're old enough to remember when the grass between here and Canada was balls high to a Belgian, and yes it is possible that in a thousand years it will go back to what it once was, though it seems unlikely. But that is the story of the human race. Soil to sand, fertile to barren, fruit to thorns. It is all we know how to do. ~ Philipp Meyer,

527:That winter arrived immediately, all at once -- you could watch it come. Twin curtains of white appeared in the north, white all the way to the sky, driving south like the end of all things. They drove the wind before them and it ran like wolves, like floodwater through a cracked dyke. Cattle galloped the fencelines, bawling. Trees toppled; a barn roof tumbled over the highway. The river changed directions. The wind flung thrushes screaming into the gorge and impaled them on the thorns in grotesque attitudes. ~ Anthony Doerr,

528:Ildiko tried to embrace him and frowned when he stepped out of reach, still retaining his hold on her hand. “I’m filthy, wife, and need a bath of my own.” His nostrils flared, and his voice lowered to a more guttural timbre. “Lover of thorns, but you smell good enough to eat.” She arched an eyebrow and glanced at the platters on the table. “Considering our people’s respective histories, not to mention that wolf smile when you say such a thing, I’m not sure if I should be flattered or scream for help. ~ Grace Draven,

529:He hesitated for a moment. Then he said softly, 'I love you, Mother.' He took my hand and kissed it, and folded my fingers round the stem of the rose. He had stripped it of its thorns. I was too moved to speak. But maternal affection was not the only emotion that prevented utterance; as I watched him walk away, his head high and his step firm, anger boiled within me. I knew I had to conquer it before I saw Nefret again, or I would take her by the shoulders and shake her, and demand that she love my son! ~ Elizabeth Peters,

530:The life of each and every one of us has been written. The crucifix is my autobiography. The blood is the ink. The nails the pen. The skin the parchment. On every line of that body I can trace my life. In the crown of thorns I can read my pride. In the hands that are dug with nails, I can read avarice and greed. In the flesh hanging from him like purple rags, I can read my lust. In feet that are fettered, I can find the times that I ran away and would not let him follow. Any sin that you can think of is written there. ~ Fulton J Sheen,

531:Up to this time, Mr Pancks had transacted little or no business at his quarters in Pentonville, except in the sleeping line; but now that he had become a fortune-teller, he was often closeted after midnight with Mr Rugg in his little front-parlour office, and even after those untimely hours, burnt tallow in his bed-room. Though his duties as his proprietor's grubber were in no wise lessened; and though that service bore no greater resemblance to a bed of roses than was to be discovered in its many thorns; some new branch ~ Charles Dickens,

532:17 And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; 18 Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field; 19 In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. ~ Joseph Smith Jr,

533:Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the praetorium, and they gathered the whole battalion before him. And they stripped him and put a scarlet robe upon him, and plaiting a crown of thorns they put it on his head, and put a reed in his right hand. And kneeling before him they mocked him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” And they spat upon him, and took the reed and struck him on the head. And when they had mocked him, they stripped him of the robe, and put his own clothes on him, and led him away to crucify him. ~ Wilhelm Reich,

534:Back in 1992, the camp originally held ninety thousand Somali refugees fleeing the civil war. They had reproduced. Then others had come: more waves of Somalis, as well as Sudanese, Congolese, Ethiopians, Ugandans and Rwandans seeking asylum whom the Kenyans had shipped out to the margins of their country. And they too had had children. Three generations now called this giant cosmopolitan city made of mud, tents and thorns, home. That morning, 1 December 2010, Guled was the newest arrival in the largest refugee camp in the world. ~ Ben Rawlence,

535:Luke, I'm a fighter. I've always been a fighter. The few times when I have been at leisure, I've been miserable. I want challenges, I crave them. As nice an peaceful as it was up north here, it lulled me, dulled me, took the edge off. Anakin made it so I had no needs, and Dantooine -- before the Yuuzhan Vong -- had nothing more dangerous than big thorns to worry about. I was wasting away, trying to conserve my strengh, all the while turning away from the means I'd used in the past to tap the Force." - Mara Jade Skywalker ~ Michael A Stackpole,

536:From that moment was established for once and for all the law of forgiveness, mercy and love, which goes far beyond the bounds of justice. After Calvary, peace was no longer to operate on the thin blade of truth or in the court of law, but in the torn heart of a God who had become human for us in Jesus Christ. The era of victimization had ended and with Jesus the reign of the victim was to begin. The true victim, silent and lamb-like, the victim who accepts to be a victim and destroys the thorns of injustice in the fire of his love. ~ Carlo Carretto,

537:Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assuduities of art, with which it would rear dulness to maturity, and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world, and some may be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. ~ Washington Irving,

538:For a while I didn't want to look at the men and their hawks any more and my eyes slipped to the white panels of cut light in the branches behind them. Then I walked to the hedge where the hawk had made her kill. Peered inside. Deep in the muddled darkness six copper pheasant feathers glowed in a cradle of blackthorn. Reaching through the thorns I picked them free, one by one, tucked the hand that held them into my pocket, and cupped the feathers in my closed fist as if I were holding a moment tight inside itself. It was death I had seen. ~ Helen Macdonald,

539:In Christ we see the strength of achievement, and the strength of endurance. He moved with a calm majesty, like the sun. The bloody sweat, and the crown of thorns, and the cross, were full in His eyes; but He was obedient unto death. In His perfect self-sacrifice we see the perfection of strength; in the love that prompted it we see the perfection of beauty. This combination of self-sacrifice and love must be commenced in every Christian; and when it shall be in its spirit complete in him, then will he also be perfect in strength and beauty. ~ Mark Hopkins,

540:Values Did you deceive me? Did I trust A heart of fire to a heart of dust? What matter? Since once the world was fair, And you gave me the rose of the world to wear. That was the time to live for! Flowers, Sunshine and starshine and magic hours, Summer about me, Heaven above, And all seemed immortal, even Love. Well, the mortal rose of your love was worth The pains of death and the pains of birth; And the thorns may be sharper than death--who knows? That crowd round the stem of a deathless rose. ~ Edith Nesbit,

541:Because you have listened to the voice of your wife         and have eaten of the tree     of which I commanded you,         ‘You shall not eat of it,’     cursed is the ground because of you;         in pain you shall eat of it all the days of your life;     thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you;         and you shall eat the plants of the field.     By the sweat of your face         you shall eat bread,     till you return to the ground,         for out of it you were taken;     for you are dust,         and to dust you shall return. ~ Anonymous,

542:This kiss was different from the first one under the olive tree. That one had been unplanned, she was pretty sure. This kiss had intention and hunger branded all over it. It was like one of those kisses you read about in fairy tales—but Alana had never imagined that such a kiss could cause bone-trembling shivers as well as bliss. She’d never considered the downside of the awakening kiss, of how the princess felt when the hero tore through the thorns or scaled the tower and speared heat and sex and life-changing energy into the princess’s world. ~ Pamela Aares,

543:ANCIENT AIR (39) I climb up high and look on the four seas, Heaven and earth spreading out so far. Frost blankets all the stuff of autumn, The wind blows with the great desert's cold. The eastward-flowing water is immense, All the ten thousand things billow. The white sun's passing brightness fades, Floating clouds seem to have no end. Swallows and sparrows nest in the wutong tree, Yuan and luan birds perch among jujube thorns. Now it's time to head on back again, I flick my sword and sing 'Taking the Hard Road'. ~ Li Bai,

544:Eating alone is a disappointment. But not eating matter more, is hollow and green, has thorns like a chain of fish hooks, trailing from the heart, clawing at your insides. Hunger feels like pincers, like the bite of crabs; it burns, burns, and has no fur. Let us sit down soon to eat with all those who haven't eaten; let us spread great tablecloths, put salt in lakes of the world, set up planetary bakeries, tables with strawberries in snow, and a plate like the moon itself from which we can all eat. For now I ask no more than the justice of eating. ~ Pablo Neruda,

545:I will not let you lose your family. I won’t let it happen to you.” Eve’s hands circled his big, tense neck. He shook his head and let out a defeated breath. “I’m so sorry, Eve. I can’t even…Well, now I guess I can imagine what I did to you—just a little.” Her words had hurt him, knocked him down. That’s not what she’d intended. She would have to lay it out. “Beckett, I’ll save you from that fate because I love you. I love you.” She let her hands slip to his chest. His heart. His beautiful heart, surrounded by thorns, guns, and pain. ~ Debra Anastasia,

546:Even so, Vigny would say those in uniform have made the greater sacrifice by losing the man in the soldier—what he calls the warrior's abnegation, his renunciation of thought and action. Vigny says a soldier's crown is a crown of thorns, amongst its spikes none more painful than passive obedience.’ ‘True enough.’ ‘He sees the role of authority as essentially artificial, the army a way of life in which there is as little room for uncontrolled fervour as for sullen indifference. The impetuous volunteer has as much to learn as the unwilling conscript. ~ Anthony Powell,

547:Well, I must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies. It seems that they are very beautiful. And if not the butterflies– and the caterpillars– who will call upon me? You will be far away. . . as for the large animals– I am not at all afraid of any of them. I have my claws.” And, navely, she showed her four thorns. Then she added: “Don’t linger like this. You have decided to go away. Now go!” For she did not want him to see her crying. She was such a proud flower. . . ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

548:I am not beautifully perfect as the flowers with which I worship. I have many flaws and blemishes. I am a traveller in the great world-path, my garments are dirty, and my feet are bleeding with thorns. Where should I achieve flower-beauty, the unsullied loveliness of a moment’s life? The gift that I proudly bring you is the heart of a woman. Here have all pains and joys gathered, the hopes and fears and shames of a daughter of the dust; here love springs up struggling towards immortal life. Herein lies an imperfection which yet is noble and grand. ~ Devdutt Pattanaik,

549:Primavera In The North She has danced for leagues and leagues, Over thorns and thistles, Prancing to a tune of Griegg's Performed on willow whistles. Antelopes behold her, dazed, Velvet-eyed, and furry; Polar flowers, crackle-glazed, Snap beneath her hurry. In a wig of copper wire, A gown of scalloped gauzes, She capers like a flame of fire Over Arctic mosses. All her tears have turned to birds, All her thoughts of dolour Paint the snow with scarlet words And traceries of colour. ~ Elinor Morton Wylie,

550:Long Barren Thou who didst hang upon a barren tree, My God, for me; Though I till now be barren, now at length Lord, give me strength To bring forth fruit to Thee. Thou who didst bear for me the crown of thorn, Spitting and scorn; Though I till now have put forth thorns, yet now Strengthen me Thou That better fruit be borne. Thou Rose of Sharon, Cedar of broad roots, Vine of sweet fruits, Thou Lily of the vale with fadeless leaf, Of thousands Chief, Feed Thou my feeble shoots. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

551:Adam Pos'D Cou'd our First Father, at his toilsome Plough, Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow, Cloath'd only in a rude, unpolish'd Skin, Cou'd he a vain Fantastick Nymph have seen, In all her Airs, in all her antick Graces, Her various Fashions, and more various Faces; How had it pos'd that Skill, which late assign'd Just Appellations to Each several Kind! A right Idea of the Sight to frame; T'have guest from what New Element she came; T'have hit the wav'ring Form, or giv'n this Thing a Name. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

552:I feel more than a mother’s fondness and anxiety, when I reflect on the dependent and oppressed state of [my daughter’s] sex. I dread lest she should be forced to sacrifice her heart to her principles, or principles to her heart. With trembling hand I shall cultivate sensibility, and cherish delicacy of sentiment, lest, whilst I lend fresh blushes to the rose, I sharpen the thorns that will wound the breast I would fain guard—I dread to unfold her mind, lest it should render her unfit for the worlds she is to inhabit—Hapless woman! What a fate is thine! ~ Mary Wollstonecraft,

553:Kaldar picked up a rock and tossed it into the clearing. It landed between two wards. A green stem shot out of the ground, and a hail of needle-thin thorns peppered the soil, striking sparks off the rock. "You got any money on you?" "No." Kaldar grimaced. "What do you have?" William made a mental inventory of some twenty-odd items he'd pulled out of the Mirror's bag of tricks and hid in his clothes this morning. Not much he could part with. "A knife," he said. "Fine. I'll bet my knife against your knife that I can walk through there unharmed. ~ Ilona Andrews,

554:THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND YOU When I hold a rose, I see the soft, velvety petals and smile, because tucked between those precious petals is a special gift - the one of a fragrance, pure and sweet. When you hold a rose, you see the thorns along the stem, and you frown because those thorns can bring you pain and cause you to bleed. I see the gift. You see the tragedy. More and more I fear that one of these days someone will hand me a rose and all I will see are thorns. Talk about tragedy. ~ Lisa Schroeder,

555:Each of us has something within us which won't be denied, even if it makes us scream aloud to die. We are what we are, that's all. Like the old Celtic legend of the bird with the thorn in its breast, singing its heart out and dying. Because it has to, its self-knowledge can't affect or change the outcome, can it? Everyone singing his own little song, convinced it's the most wonderful song the world has ever heard. Don't you see? We create our own thorns, and never stop to count the cost. All we can do is suffer the pain, and tell ourselves it was well worth it. ~ Colleen McCullough,

556:What good does it do me, after all, if an ever-watchful authority keeps an eye out to ensure that my pleasures will be tranquil and races ahead of me to ward off all danger, sparing me the need even to think about such things, if that authority, even as it removes the smallest thorns from my path, is also absolute master of my liberty and my life; if it monopolizes vitality and existence to such a degree that when it languishes, everything around it must also languish; when it sleeps, everything must also sleep; and when it dies, everything must also perish? ~ Alexis de Tocqueville,

557:Waking up is unpleasant, you know. You are nice and comfortable in bed. It is irritating to be woken up. That's the reason the wise guru will not attempt to wake people up. I hope I'm going to be wise here and make no attempt whatsoever to wake you up if you are asleep. It is really none of my business, even though I say to you at times, "Wake up!" My business is to do my thing, to dance my dance. If you profit from it fine; if you don't, too bad! As the Arabs say, "The nature of rain is the same, but it makes thorns grow in the marshes and flowers in the gardens." ~ Anthony de Mello,

558:Grief is not something you know if you grow up wearing feathers with a Charlie Chaplin boyfriend, a love-child papoose, a witch baby, a Dirk and a Duck, a Slinkster Dog, and a movie to dance in. You can feel sad and worse when your dad moves to another city, when an old lady dies, or when your boyfriend goes away. But grief is different. Weetzie’s heart cringed in her like a dying animal. It was as if someone had stuck a needle full of poison into her heart. She moved like a sleepwalker. She was the girl in the fairy tale sleeping in a prison of thorns and roses. ~ Francesca Lia Block,

559:The Honeysuckle I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with thorn, And climbing for the prize, was torn, And fouled my feet in quag-water; And by the thorns and by the wind The blossom that I took was thinn'd, And yet I found it sweet and fair. Thence to a richer growth I came, Where, nursed in mellow intercourse, The honeysuckles sprang by scores, Not harried like my single stem, All virgin lamps of scent and dew. So from my hand that first I threw, Yet plucked not any more of them. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

560:Mosquitos There were many dead in the Nootkas village. In each dead body there was a hole through which blood had been stolen. The murderer, a child who was already killing before he learned to walk, received his sentence roaring with laughter. They pierced him with lances and he laughingly picked them out of his body like thorns. “I’ll teach you to kill me,” said the child. He suggested to his executioners that they should light a big bonfire and throw him into it. His ashes scattered through the air, anxious to do harm, and thus the first mosquitos started to fly. (174) ~ Eduardo Galeano,

561:The whole life of Christ was a continual Passion; others die martyrs but Christ was born a martyr. He found a Golgotha even in Bethlehem, where he was born; for to his tenderness then the straws were almost as sharp as the thorns after, and the manger as uneasy at first as his cross at last. His birth and his death were but one continual act, and his Christmas day and his Good Friday are but the evening and morning of one and the same day. And as even his birth is his death, so every action and passage that manifests Christ to us is his birth, for Epiphany is manifestation. ~ John Donne,

562:The Fall of humankind means that the original design of the world is broken. In the Garden, men and women were called to work- to care for and cultivate the earth. When Adam and Eve sinned, part of the curse was that now "thorns and thistles" would grow out of the ground as well as flowers and food. This means that the good pattern of the life God created here is not completely eradicated, but it now falls far short of its original intent. It should be that hard work would always lead to prosperity, but now sometimes you can work hard and injustice or disaster wipes it away. ~ Timothy J Keller,

563:Dost thou understand me, sinful soul? He wrestled with justice, that thou mightest have rest; He wept and mourned, that thou mightest laugh and rejoice; He was betrayed, that thou mightest go free; was apprehended, that thou mightest escape; He was condemned, that thou mightest be justified; and was killed, that thou mightest live; He wore a crown of thorns, that thou mightest wear a crown of glory; and was nailed to the cross, with His arms wide open, to show with what freeness all His merits shall be bestowed on the coming soul; and how heartily He will receive it into His bosom? ~ John Bunyan,

564:The Onlooker If I could make a pillow for your head, Soft, pleasant, filled with every pretty thought; If I could lay a carpet where you tread Of all my life's most radiant fancies wrought, And spread my love as canopy above you, Your sleep, your steps should know how much I love you. But--as life goes, to the old sorry tune-I stand apart, I see thorns wound your feet, Your sleeping eyes resenting sun and moon, Your head lie restless on a breast unmeet-And say no word, and suffer without moan, Lest you should guess how much you are alone. ~ Edith Nesbit,

565:Chagrin D'Amour IF Love and I were all alone I might forget to grieve, And for his pleasure and my own Might happier garlands weave; But you sit there, and watch us wear The mourning wreaths you wove: And while such mocking eyes you bear I am not friends with Love. Withdraw those cruel eyes, and let Me search the garden through That I may weave, ere Love be set, The wreath of Love for you; Till you, whom Love so well adorns, Its hidden thorns discover, And know at last what crown of thorns It was you gave your lover. ~ Edith Nesbit,

566:Using which instead of that. That introduces essential clauses while which introduces nonessential clauses. Consider the sentence “Tools that have sharp edges can cause nasty cuts.” If you remove the words “that have sharp edges,” the sentence loses much of its meaning. The clause is essential. Now consider “Roses, which come in many colors, have thorns on their stems.” You can remove “which come in many colors” and the meaning of the rest of the sentence is intact. The clause is not essential. Another way to remember: If the clause obviously needs to be set off by commas, use which. ~ Charles Murray,

567:I've seen a lot in my years, Aerlyn. And when I look at you, I see a rose, not a thistle." Her heart caught in her throat and she nearly snorted. "You see what you want to see." Quill chuckled to himself. At the thorns in her voice. "As do you, Thistle. Can you tell me what I can see any more than I can tell you want you see?" "No." "Then let me see what I want to see." He said, turning to face her, and she jabbed her midnight gaze at him before twisting her head to see the many sorrows sleeping beneath his own lake blue eyes. "Because I see what no one else sees. ~ Luke Taylor,

568:John actually saw the crucifixion. He witnessed the effects of the crown of thorns piercing the brow of the Savior. He saw the face of Jesus marred. He saw the results of the 39 lashes on His lacerated, raw back. John witnessed firsthand the nails piercing His hands and feet. He heard the desperate cries of the Son of Man, the only Son of God, for help. The sound of Jesus’ words from the cross probably echoed in John’s heart and mind all his life. According to John 21:20, the John who was at the cross was the same John who had laid his head on the chest of the Messiah at the Last Supper. ~ James W Goll,

569:Snow pouted. "I hate roses! They hurt!" Her mother smiled, her image softening along with the sound of her voice. She seemed so far away. "They can, yes, when you get nicked by a thorn." She plucked a single red rose off the bush. It was petrified from the snow and frozen, but still perfectly preserved and almost crimson in color. Snow peered at it closely. "But you shouldn't be afraid to hold on to something beautiful, even if there are thorns in your path. If you want something, sometimes you have to take risks. And when you do"- she handed Snow the rose- "you reap wonderful rewards. ~ Jen Calonita,

570:SOMEHOW I PULLED MYSELF OUT OF BED AND WENT IN TO work the next day, in spite of the gnawing sense of dull despair that bloomed in me like a brittle garden of thorns. I felt wrapped in a fog of dull pain that hurt only enough to remind me that it, too, was without purpose, and there seemed no point to going through the empty motions of breakfast, the long slow drive to work, no reason at all beyond the slavery of habit. But I did it, allowing muscle memory to push me all the way into the chair at my desk, where I sat, turned on the computer, and let the day drag me off into gray drudgery. ~ Jeff Lindsay,

571:The humble woman is surprised by all the good that she sees around her rather than scandalized by what she cannot judge anyway. The humble woman is grateful for her successes but not disheartened by her failures. She enjoys her gifts and readily admits her mistakes. She maintains a sense of humor, whether the news from Wall Street is giddy or glum. She faces her character defects without getting discouraged. Her humble confidence in God’s love and her enchantment with the kabod Yahweh shape a hedge of thorns against self-absorption and frees her for an unselfconscious presence to others. ~ Brennan Manning,

572:We were young and the focus on human suffering gave our retreats gravitas. But suffering is not the goal, it is the beginning of the path. Now in the retreat I teach, I also encourage participants to awaken to their innate joy. From the very beginning I encourage them to allow the moments of joy and well-being to deepen, to spread throughout their body and mind. Many of us are conditioned to fear joy and happiness, yet joy is necessary for awakening. As the Persian mystic Rumi instructs us, ‘When you go to a garden, do you look at thorns or flowers? Spend more time with roses and jasmine. ~ Jack Kornfield,

573:And there it is, proof if proof were needed, that though God may mould the clay and fashion some of us hale, some strong, some beautiful, inside we make ourselves, from foolish things, breakable, fragile things: the thorns, that dog, the hope that Katherine might make me better than I am. Even Rike’s blunt wants were born of losses he probably remembered only in dreams. All of us fractured, awkward collages of experience wrapped tight to present a defensible face to the world. And what makes us human is that sometimes we snap. And in that moment of release we’re closer to gods than we know. ~ Mark Lawrence,

574:Brier: Good Friday Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm Bends back the brier that edges life's long way, That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm, I do not feel the thorns so much to-day. Because I never knew your care to tire, Your hand to weary guiding me aright, Because you walk before and crush the brier, It does not pierce my feet so much to-night. Because so often you have hearkened to My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now, That these harsh hands of mine add not unto The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow. ~ Emily Pauline Johnson,

575:See Who God is! Realize what this Mass is! See Christ here, on the Cross! See His wounds, see His torn hands, see how the King of Glory is crowned with thorns! Do you know what Love is? Here is Love, Here on this Cross, here is Love, suffering these nails, these thorns, that scourge loaded with lead, smashed to pieces, bleeding to death because of your sins and bleeding to death because of people that will never know Him, and never think of Him and will never remember His Sacrifice. Learn from Him how to love God and how to love men! Learn of this Cross, this Love, how to give your life away to Him. ~ Thomas Merton,

576:when serpents bargain for the right to squirm and the sun strikes to gain a living wage - when thorns regard their roses with alarm and rainbows are insured against old age when every thrush may sing no new moon in if all screech-owls have not okayed his voice - and any wave signs on the dotted line or else an ocean is compelled to close when the oak begs permission of the birch to make an acorn - valleys accuse their mountains of having altitude - and march denounces april as a saboteur then we’ll believe in that incredible unanimal mankind (and not until) ~ E E Cummings,

577:Behold the Beloved of God, perfectly spotless and holy, yet made an example of the severest vengeance; prostrate and agonizing in the garden; enduring the vilest insults from wicked men; torn with whips, and nails, and thorns; suspended, naked, wounded, and bleeding upon the cross, and there heavily complaining, that God had for a season forsaken him. Sin was the cause of all his anguish. He stood in the place of sinners, and therefore was not spared. Not any, or all, the evils which the world has known, afford such proof of the dreadful effects and detestable nature of sin, as the knowledge of Christ crucified.25 ~ Tony Reinke,

578: I climb up high and look on the four seas, Heaven and earth spreading out so far. Frost blankets all the stuff of autumn, The wind blows with the great desert's cold. The eastward-flowing water is immense, All the ten thousand things billow. The white sun's passing brightness fades, Floating clouds seem to have no end. Swallows and sparrows nest in the wutong tree, Yuan and luan birds perch among jujube thorns. Now it's time to head on back again, I flick my sword and sing Taking the Hard Road. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Li Bai, Ancient Air (39) ,

579:THE BIBLE SPEAKS of the Word of God as a seed. Sometimes it’s planted by the wayside, and nothing grows there. Sometimes it’s sown among the thorns and represents the person who makes the decision and then goes back to his old life of bars and chasing women or whatever. A third seed is sown among the rocks. There’s sand and dirt between the rocks, and when it rains you’ll see a stalk of green coming up. But on the first day with sunshine it wilts because there is no room for roots. The fourth seed is planted on fertile soil, and finally it takes hold and has a chance to grow and live. That’s what happened to me. ~ Louis Zamperini,

580:The Bible speaks of the Word of God as added. Sometimes it's planted by the wayside, and nothing grows there. Sometimes it's sown among the thorns and represents the person who makes the decision an then goes back to his old life of bars and chasing women or whatever. A third seed is sown among the rocks. There's sand and dirt between the rocks, and when it rains you'll see a stalk of green coming up. But on the first day with sunshine it wilts because there is no room for roots. The fourth seed is planted on fertile soil, and finally it takes hold and has a chance to grow and live. That's what happened to me. ~ Louis Zamperini,

581:To periodize or not to periodize? That is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outraged academes by periodizing (and thus to blaspheme through generalization) or to address large-scale stylistic trends without prevarication; ’tis a fardel to bear, and bear it we shall. For such utile aids are not to be scorned, but embraced lest even greater misunderstanding be our lot. O Baroque! O Classical! O Romantic! Though the thorns of despised love be your reward, we will invoke you even as we curse you, for, like our knees, thou art poorly made, but we cannot walk without you. ~ Robert Greenberg,

582:The concrete highway was edged with a mat of tangled, broken, dry grass, and the grass heads were heavy with oat beards to catch on a dog’s coat, and foxtails to tangle in a horse’s fetlocks, and clover burrs to fasten in sheep’s wool; sleeping life waiting to be spread and dispersed, every seed armed with an appliance of dispersal, twisting darts and parachutes for the wind, little spears and balls of tiny thorns, and all waiting for animals and for the wind, for a man’s trouser cuff or the hem of a woman’s skirt, all passive but armed with appliances of activity, still, but each possessed of the anlage of movement. ~ John Steinbeck,

583:You wouldn’t really knock my teeth out, now would you, Sweet Katie?” “Sweet Katie?” She repeated the name he’d thought up for her as though it were a rotten potato. He shrugged. “I think it suits you, despite the fine show you’re making of being all prickles and thorns.” Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if she was anything but prickles and thorns, but he was intrigued enough to find out. “My prickles and thorns are no concern of yours. And I’ll thank you to call me Katie, plain Katie, as that be my name.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think I could do that. The Katie part suits you, but you’re not the least bit plain. ~ Sarah M Eden,

584:When they killed him, Mother wouldn't hold her peace, so they slit her throat. I was stupid then, being only nine, and I fought to save them both. But the thorns held me tight. I've learned to appreciate thorns since. The thorns taught me the game. They let me understand what all those grim and serious men who've fought the Hundred War have yet to learn. You can only win the game when you understand that it IS a game. Let a man play chess, and tell him that every pawn is his friend. Let him think both bishops holy. Let him remember happy days in the shadows of his castles. Let him love his queen. Watch him loose them all. ~ Mark Lawrence,

585:Asia and Europe: tiny corners of the Cosmos. Every sea: a mere drop. Mount Athos: a lump of dirt. The present moment is the smallest point in all eternity. All is microscopic, changeable, disappearing. All things come from that faraway place, either originating directly from that governing part which is common to all, or else following from it as consequences. So even the gaping jaws of the lion, deadly poison, and all harmful things like thorns or an oozing bog are products of that awesome and noble source. Do not imagine these things to be alien to that which you revere, but turn your Reason to the source of all things. ~ Marcus Aurelius,

586:What is a valley of tears? He was scourged, covered with spittle, crowned with thorns, nailed to the cross. From this valley of tears you must ascend. But ascend where? ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God‘ (Jn 1:1). For He Himself, the ‘Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.’ Abiding in Himself, He descended to you. He descended to you so as to become for you a valley of tears; He abode in Himself so as to be for you a mountain of ascent. And ‘In the days to come,’ said Isaiah, ‘the mountain of the Lord shall tower above the hills’ (Is 2:2). It is there we must ascend. ~ Saint Augustine of Hippo,

587:..Each of us has something within us which won't be denied, even if it make us scream aloud to die. We are what we are, that's all. Like the old Celtic legend of the bird with a thorn in it's breast, singing it's heart out and dying. Because it has to, it's driven to. We can know what we do wrong even before we do it, but self-knowledge can't affect or change the outcome, can it? Everyone singing his own little song, convinced it's the most wonderful song the world has ever heard. Don't you see? We create our own thorns, and never stop to count the cost. All we can do is suffer the pain, and tell ourselves it was well worth it. ~ Colleen McCullough,

588:Therefore, if reason grows out of the primal energy that we are, then it means that the primal energy is at least reasonable, whatever else it may be. You can tell the tree by its fruits — for “by their fruits you shall know them” — and so it is that figs do not grow on thistles, or grapes on thorns, and a stupid universe does not create people. People are a manifestation of the potentiality in the energy of the universe, and if we are intelligent, then that which we express is also intelligent. By logical extension, that in which we express it is our central self. The world is not something external; it is what is most fundamentally you. ~ Alan W Watts,

589:I saw Amar. Perched on a towering throne of thorns. There was no compassion in his eyes. Only steel. But there was also a blank look to his expression, as though he couldn’t quite remember how he’d gotten there or what he was supposed to do next. Images rustled beneath my skin, lighting up behind my eyes. I saw us along the ocean at the edge of the world, his hands twisting the black curls of my hair. I saw him standing near the shore, smiling as he placed a wreath of rosemary and honey myrtle around my head like a crown. I saw our fingers interlace, felt the roughness of his hands against my own and heard him speak my name like a prayer. ~ Roshani Chokshi,

590:When we say "transformation," it means that nothing of the old has remained. Something totally new has flowered within you. Now you look at a rose plant that is full of thorns. Springtime came and rose flowers burst out — it is a transformation. The thorns are still there — there are more thorns than flowers — but we do not call it a thorn plant. We call it a rose plant because of that single rose. Everyone's attention goes more towards that single rose than a hundred thorns that are on the plant, isn't it? So all the thorns in you, maybe you cannot remove them right now, but if one rose flower blossoms, everyone is willing to overlook those things. ~ Sadhguru,

591:Recalled Long after there were none of them alive About the place—where there is now no place But a walled hole where fruitless vines embrace Their parent skeletons that yet survive In evil thorns—none of us could arrive At a more cogent answer to their ways Than one old Isaac in his latter days Had humor or compassion to contrive. I mentioned them, and Isaac shook his head: “The Power that you call yours and I call mine Extinguished in the last of them a line That Satan would have disinherited. When we are done with all but the Divine, We die.” And there was no more to be said. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

592:3    Sorrow is better than laughter,          k for by sadness of face the heart is made glad. 4    The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning,         but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth. 5    It is  l better for a man to hear the rebuke of the wise         than to hear the song of fools. 6     m For as the crackling of  n thorns under a pot,         so is the laughter of the fools;         this also is vanity. [1] 7    Surely  o oppression drives the wise into madness,         and  p a bribe corrupts the heart. 8    Better is the end of a thing than its beginning,         and  q the patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit. ~ Anonymous,

593:I am not saying there will always be flowers and flowers in your life. No, there are thorns, but they too are good. And I am not saying that your life will always be sweet. It will many times be very bitter, but that’s how life grows: through dialectics. I am not saying you will always be good. Sometimes you will be very bad, but one thing will be certain: when you are bad you will be authentically bad, and when you are good you will be authentically good. One can trust, one can rely upon you. When you are angry, one can rely on it that your anger is not false, not cold; it is hot and alive. And when you love, one can rely upon you that it is alive and warm. Remember, ~ Osho,

594:There are those who believe that if you will only legislate to make the well-to-do prosperous, their prosperity will leak through on those below. The Democratic idea, however, has been that if you legislate to make the masses prosperous, their prosperity will find its way up through every class which rests upon them. You come to us and tell us that the great cities are in favor of the gold standard; we reply that the great cities rest upon our broad and fertile prairies.… We will answer their demand for a gold standard by saying to them: “You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold! ~ Stephen Kinzer,

595:They will remain shut away behind a hedge of thorns. The journey in search of soul is difficult and even dangerous because it requires that we relinquish the certainty of what we think we know and what we have been taught for generations to believe. It means surrendering the desire to be in control and opening ourselves to a quest, a path of discovery. Many myths and fairy tales emphasize the need for surrender and trust in the strange non-rational guidance offered by animals or shamans on the quest. As the hero follows their guidance, so the hedge opens, the way unfolds. Following the guidance and wisdom of the instinct is the royal road into the realm of soul. ~ Anne Baring,

596:A Rose Has Thorns As Well As Honey A rose has thorns as well as honey, I'll not have her for love or money; An iris grows so straight and fine, That she shall be no friend of mine; Snowdrops like the snow would chill me; Nightshade would caress and kill me; Crocus like a spear would fright me; Dragon's-mouth might bark or bite me; Convolvulus but blooms to die; A wind-flower suggests a sigh; Love-lies-bleeding makes me sad; And poppy-juice would drive me mad: But give me holly, bold and jolly, Honest, prickly, shining holly; Pluck me holly leaf and berry For the day when I make merry. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

597:You’re beautiful.” Blake said hello as he’d said goodbye. “You said that already,” Livia mouthed over the banging music. Blake just shrugged. He flashed Livia a shy smile and held out the pink napkin to her. He’d turned it into a beautiful, perfect rose bud with a single leaf. Livia took the rose from his hand and turned it over carefully. He’d pinched tiny thorns into the paper stem. Livia put it to her nose as if to smell it. She realized he was waiting. “You’re beautiful,” Livia mouthed. She would have hugged the rose if it weren’t so delicate. She hugged him instead. With her ear so close, Blake was able to murmur into it. “May I have this dance? ~ Debra Anastasia,

598:His work is as it were, a sacred object and the true fruit of his life, and his aim in storing it away for a more discerning posterity will be to make it the property of mankind. An aim like this far surpasses all others, and for it he wears the crown of thorns which is one day to bloom into a wreath of laurel. All his powers are concentrated in the effort to complete and secure his work; just as the insect, in the last stage of its development, uses its whole strength on behalf of a brood it will never live to see; it puts its eggs in some place of safety, where, as it well knows, the young will one day find life and nourishment, and then dies in confidence. ~ Arthur Schopenhauer,

599:...We always look for Christ amid magnificence. But ... Christ has a history of showing up amide the unlovely. Born in a dirty stall. Crowned with thorns. Died gasping on a shameful cross atop a jagged rise. We don't need to be beautiful for Christ to take us in. He is equally at home when we're broken-down and dirty. It's like George Herbert wrote: 'And here in dust and dirt, O here, The lilies of God's love appear.' We think magnificence is in short supply, that dust and dirt choke out the lilies. But that's not true and never was. Lilies may root in dirt, but they reach for heaven—and in the reaching, reveal their magnificence. —chapter 24 ~ Philip Gulley,

600:He walked through the woods like a young Adam, naming creation. I learned to shape my mouth to the words—sasumuneash for cranberry, tunockuquas for frog. So many things grew and lived here that were strange to us, because they had not been in England. We named the things of this place in reference to things that were not of this place—cat briar for the thickets of vine whose thorns were narrow and claw-like; lambskill for the low-growing laurel that had proved poisonous to some of our hard-got tegs. But there had been no cats or lambs here until we brought them. So when he named a plant or a creature, I felt that I heard the true name of the thing for the first time. ~ Geraldine Brooks,

601:The One Certainty Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith, All things are vanity. The eye and ear Cannot be filled with what they see and hear. Like early dew, or like the sudden breath Of wind, or like the grass that withereth, Is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear: So little joy hath he, so little cheer, Till all things end in the long dust of death. To-day is still the same as yesterday, To-morrow also even as one of them; And there is nothing new under the sun: Until the ancient race of Time be run, The old thorns shall grow out of the old stem, And morning shall be cold and twilight grey. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

602:So I’ll be very modern and not ask any more questions about Mr. MacAlasdair. I’m certain that he’ll answer any that really matter before very long.” Her meaning broke upon Reggie like the first rays of sun when one had spent the night before surrounded by music and suspiciously green drinks. Mater was talking about marriage. Whatever she’d noticed, whatever she’d worked out, Mater expected marriage, or at least expected Colin to propose. He, Reggie was damned sure, had no idea of doing any such thing. She would have put a hand out to steady herself, but the only objects nearby were Mater herself and the rosebush, thick with thorns. How bloody appropriate. ~ Isabel Cooper,

603:I have never yet managed to see the moment of the petals of a bud unfurling. I might dedicate the rest of my life to it and might still never see it. No, not might, I will: I will dedicate the rest of my life, in which I walk forward into this blossoming. When there's no blossom I will dead-head and wait. It'll be back. That's the nature of things. As it is, I am careful when kissing, or when taking anyone in my arms. I warn them about the thorns. I treat myself with care. I guard against pests and frost-damage. I am careful with my roots. I know they need depth and darkness, and any shit that comes my way I know exactly what to do with. I'm composed when it comes to compost. ~ Ali Smith,

604:Giraffes are famous for long necks, but their 20-inch (50cm) tongues are also impressive. These gentle herbivores spend most of their time eating, consuming hundreds of pounds of leaves each week and traveling miles to find enough food. Given that they eat for hours, the darker coloring of their tongues helps prevent sunburn! Giraffe tongues have also developed a thick skin and exceptional dexterity as protection against the vicious thorns that grow on their favourite food, the acacia tree. Although they are largely classified as a species at least concern, wild giraffes declined by 40 percent in the past 15 years and need protection from poaching and habitat loss. ~ National Geographic Society,

605:A light which lives on what the flames devour, a grey landscape surrounding me with scorch, a crucifixion by a single wound, a sky and earth that darken by each hour, a sob of blood whose red ribbon adorns a lyre without a pulse, and oils the torch, a tide which stuns and strands me on the reef, a scorpion scrambling, stinging in my chest-- this is the wreath of love, this bed of thorns is where I dream of you stealing my rest, haunting these sunken ribs cargoed with grief. I sought the peak of prudence, but I found the hemlock-brimming valley of your heart, and my own thirst for bitter truth and art. - Stigmata of Love ~ Federico Garc a Lorca,

606:Trying to retain his enthusiasm, he led her toward the opening in the overgrown boxwood hedge where a pair of musk rose bushes formed a thorny turnstile, marking the exit from the garden to the fallow fields and woods beyond. They stopped to take deep, lung-filling inhalations of the musk roses' delicious, honeylike perfume. Exclaiming with unaffected joy at the roses' late-blooming beauty, Alice cupped one of the creamy white blossoms gracefully in her gloved hand. He picked one, pulled off the thorns, and offered it to her. She took it in silence, searching his face warily, then turned away and walked on. Lucien just stood there watching her, praying he wouldn't do anything wrong. ~ Gaelen Foley,

607:Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns. These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be confounded; appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is—I repeat it—a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation between them. ~ Charlotte Bront,

608:O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem   By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.   The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem   For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.   The canker blooms have full as deep a dye   As the perfumed tincture of the roses.   Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly   When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:   But, for their virtue only is their show,   They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;   Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;   Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made:     And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,     When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth. ~ William Shakespeare,

609:Truth is to be found in dreams,” the King said, looking down at them. From this angle, Emma could see that odd splitting of his face ended at his throat, which was ordinary skin. “Tell me, Shadowhunters: you enter a cave. Inside the cave is and egg, lit from within and glowing. You know that it beats with you dreams-not the ones you have during the day, but the ones you half-remember in the morning. It splits open.What emerges?” “A rose,” said Mark. “With thorns.” Cristina cut her eyes toward him in surprise but remained motionless. “An angel,” she said. “With bloody hands.” “A knife,” said Emma. “Pure and clean.” “Bars,” Julian said quietly. “The bars of a prison cell. ~ Cassandra Clare,

610:Sonnet Xxxvi. SHOULD the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, And though his path through thorns and roughness lay, Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flowers, Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose; So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy! So charm'd my way with Friendship and the Muse. But darker now grows life's unhappy day, Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come, Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb; And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more. ~ Charlotte Smith,

611:Truth is to be found in dreams," the King said, looking down at them. From this angle, Emma could see that the odd splitting of his face ended at his throat, which was ordinary skin. "Tell me, Shadowhunters: You enter a cave. Inside the cave is an egg, lit from within and glowing. You know that it beats with your dreams--not the ones you have during the day, but the ones you half-remember in the morning. It splits open. What emerges?" "A rose," said Mark. "With thorns." Christina cut her eyes toward him in surprise, but remained motionless. "An angel," she said. "With bloody hands." "A knife," said Emma. "Pure and clean." "Bars," Julian said quietly. "The bars of a prison cell. ~ Cassandra Clare,

612:Unfortunately, we forget the cruel details of the agonizing sacrifice God made on our behalf. Familiarity breeds complacency. Even before his crucifixion, the Son of God was stripped naked, beaten until almost unrecognizable, whipped, scorned and mocked, crowned with thorns, and spit on contemptuously. Abused and ridiculed by heartless men, he was treated worse than an animal. Then, nearly unconscious fromblood loss, he was forced to drag a cumbersome cross up a hill, was nailed to it, and was left to die the slow, excruciating torture of death by crucifixion. While his lifeblood drained out, hecklers stood by and shouted insults, making fun of his pain and challenging his claim to be God. ~ Rick Warren,

613:Rearrange a 'Wife's' affection! Rearrange a 'Wife's' affection! When they dislocate my Brain! Amputate my freckled Bosom! Make me bearded like a man! Blush, my spirit, in thy Fastness Blush, my unacknowledged clay Seven years of troth have taught thee More than Wifehood every may! Love that never leaped its socket Trust entrenched in narrow pain Constancy thro' fire - awarded Anguish - bare of anodyne! Burden - borne so far triumphant None suspect me of the crown, For I wear the 'Thorns' till Sunset Then - my Diadem put on. Big my Secret but it's bandaged It will never get away Till the Day its Weary Keeper Leads it through the Grave to thee. ~ Emily Dickinson,

614:Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns. These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is – I repeat it – a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation between them. ~ Charlotte Bront,

615:Sonnet Lxxiii. To A Querulous Acquaintance THOU! whom Prosperity has always led O'er level paths, with moss and flow'rets strewn; For whom she still prepares a downy bed With roses scatter'd, and to thorns unknown, Wilt thou yet murmur at a misplaced leaf? Think, ere thy irritable nerves repine, How many, born with feelings keen as thine, Taste all the sad vicissitudes of grief; How many steep in tears their scanty bread; Or, lost to reason, Sorrow's victims! rave: How many know not where to lay their head; While some are driven by anguish to the grave! Think; nor impatient at a feather's weight, Mar the uncommon blessings of thy fate! ~ Charlotte Smith,

616:Sonnet Xxvii. SIGHING I see yon little troop at play, By sorrow yet untouch'd; unhurt by care; While free and sportive they enjoy to-day, 'Content and careless of to-morrow's fare!' O happy age! when hope's unclouded ray Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth, Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth, Making them rue the hour that gave them birth, And threw them on a world so full of pain, Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth, And, to deaf pride, misfortune pleads in vain! Ah!--for their future fate how many fears Oppress my heart--and fill mine eyes with tears! ~ Charlotte Smith,

617:Sonnet Vi. To Hope OH, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes. How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn? For me wilt thou renew the wither'd rose, And clear my painful path of pointed thorn? Ah, come sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest, Like the young hours that lead the tender year, Enchantress, come! and charm my cares to rest:-Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear! A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain, Must I a sad existence still deplore Lo!--the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain, 'For me the vernal garland blooms no more.' Come then, 'pale Misery's love!' be thou my cure, And I will bless thee, who though slow art sure. ~ Charlotte Smith,

618:Sonnet Xxi. Supposed To Written By Werter GO! cruel tyrant of the human breast! To other hearts thy burning arrows bear; Go, where fond hope, and fair illusion rest; Ah! why should love inhabit with despair! Like the poor maniac I linger here, Still haunt the scene where all my treasure lies; Still seek for flowers where only thorns appear, 'And drink delicious poison from her eyes!' Tow'rds the deep gulf that opens on my sight I hurry forward, Passion's helpless slave! And scorning Reason's mild and sober light, Pursue the path that leads me to the grave! So round the flame the giddy insect flies, And courts the fatal fire by which it dies! ~ Charlotte Smith,

619:There are stories where you must wear out your iron shoes to right a wrong, where children are baked into pies, where jealousy cuts off hands and cuts out hearts. We forget, because the stories end with those ritual words—happily ever after—all the darkness, all the pain, all the effort that comes before. People say they want a fairy tale life, but what they really want is the part that happens off the page, after the oven has been escaped, after the clock strikes midnight. They want the part that doesn’t come with glass slippers still stained with a stepsister’s blood, or a lover blinded by an angry mother’s thorns. If you live through a fairy tale, you don’t make it through unscathed or unchanged. Hands ~ Kat Howard,

620:Sonnet Lv. BORNE on the warm wing of the western gale, How tremulously low is heard to float Thro' the green budding thorns that fringe the vale The early Nightingale's prelusive note. 'Tis Hope's instinctive power that through the grove Tells how benignant Heaven revives the earth; 'Tis the soft voice of young and timid love That calls these melting sounds of sweetness forth. With transport, once, sweet bird! I hail'd thy lay, And bade thee welcome to our shades again, To charm the wandering poet's pensive way And soothe the solitary lover's pain; But now!--such evils in my lot combine, As shut my languid sense--to Hope's dear voice and thine! ~ Charlotte Smith,

621:At home, I have a poster on my wall of a rose that’s bleeding. Its petals are white, and red liquid oozes from its heart, thick and glistening warm. Only, if you look very close, you can see the droplets are coming from above, where a little girl’s wrist—camouflaged by a cluster of leaves—has been pricked by thorns as she reached inside to catch a monarch. I used to wonder why she risked getting sliced up just to touch a butterfly. But now it makes sense: she wanted those wings so she could fly away, because the pain of trying to reach for them was more tolerable than the pain of staying grounded, wherever she was. Today, I embrace that child’s perfect wisdom. What I wouldn’t give for a set of wings . . . ~ A G Howard,

622:Aw, angel," he said, shaking his head as he looked around. "I get you now." He got me? What the heck was that supposed to mean? "What?" "You know, my grandmother is a big gardener," he said, tucking the flat of cat food under one arm and running his hand over the back of my sofa. "That's wonderful. Now get out of my apartment." "She's won awards 'round here for her roses," he went on his weird speech. His attention suddenly turned back toward me, pinning me into place. "She used to tell me that the prettiest roses have the biggest thorns. It's a defense mechanism. So," he said, coming closer toward me and running his finger across the side of my jaw, "I get you, Amelia Alvarado. ~ Jessica Gadziala,

623:Hedgehog The snail moves like a Hovercraft, held up by a Rubber cushion of itself, Sharing its secret With the hedgehog. The hedgehog Shares its secret with no one. We say, Hedgehog, come out Of yourself and we will love you. We mean no harm. We want Only to listen to what You have to say. We want Your answers to our questions. The hedgehog gives nothing Away, keeping itself to itself. We wonder what a hedgehog Has to hide, why it so distrusts. We forget the god under this crown of thorns. We forget that never again will a god trust in the world. ~ Paul Muldoon,

624:I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed. And then? I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed. And what next? I get laid, I take a short holiday, but very soon after I fall upon those same thorns with gratification in pain, or suffering in joy - who knows what the mixture is! What good, what lasting good is there in me? Is there nothing else between birth and death but what I can get out of this perversity - only a favorable balance of disorderly emotions? No freedom? Only impulses? And what about all the good I have in my heart - does it mean anything? Is it simply a joke? A false hope that makes a man feel the illusion of worth? And so he goes on with his struggles. But this good is no phony. I know it isn't. I swear it. ~ Saul Bellow,

625:It was all the answer Rook needed. He plunged his hand into the soil, long fingers grasping down. This was no offering to the earth, but a command to it, and the forest surged around us. Bramble roots as wide around as kitchen tables heaved up from the ground, bristling with thorns longer and more wicked than any sword. When they reached their full height they branched, heaving higher, knotting together, until they gathered us up in a fortress like something out of an old tale, a place where a cursed princess slept imprisoned. I was gladdened by the sight of those vicious thorns more than I could say, and wondered whether the stories would have gone any differently if the princesses had been the ones telling them. ~ Margaret Rogerson,

626:No one wants to admit that the temporary camp of Dadaab has become permanent: not the Kenyan government who must host it, not the UN who must pay for it, and not the refugees who must live there. This paradox makes the ground unsteady. Caught between the ongoing war in Somalia and a world unwilling to welcome them, the refugees can only survive in the camp by imagining a life elsewhere. It is unsettling: neither the past, nor the present, nor the future is a safe place for a mind to linger for long. To live in this city of thorns is to be trapped mentally, as well as physically, your thoughts constantly flickering between impossible dreams and a nightmarish reality. In short, to come here you must be completely desperate. ~ Ben Rawlence,

627:Yes, God saved us because He loved us. But He is God. He has infinite imagination. Couldn’t He have dreamed up a different redemption? Couldn’t He have saved us with a smile, a pang of hunger, a word of forgiveness, a single drop of blood? And if He had to die, then for God’s sake—for Christ’s sake—couldn’t He have died in bed, died with dignity? Why was He condemned like a criminal? Why was His back flayed with whips? Why was His head crowned with thorns? Why was He nailed to wood and allowed to die in frightful, lonely agony? Why was the last breath drawn in bloody disgrace, while the world for which He lay dying egged on His executioners with savage fury like some kind of gang rape by uncivilized brutes in Central Park? ~ Brennan Manning,

628:Through The Wood THROUGH the wood, the green wood, the wet wood, the light wood, Love and I went maying a thousand lives ago; Shafts of golden sunlight had made a golden bright wood In my heart reflected, because I loved you so. Through the wood, the chill wood, the brown wood, the bare wood, I alone went lonely no later than last year, What had thinned the branches, and wrecked my dear and fair wood, Killed the pale wild roses and left the rose-thorns sere? Through the wood, the dead wood, the sad wood, the lone wood, Winds of winter shiver through lichens old and grey, You ride past forgetting the wood that was our own wood All our own--and withered as ever a flower of May. ~ Edith Nesbit,

629:The face that Moses had begged to see—was forbidden to see—was slapped bloody (Exodus 33:19–20). The thorns that God had sent to curse the earth’s rebellion now twisted around his own brow.… “On your back with you!” One raises a mallet to sink in the spike. But the soldier’s heart must continue pumping as he readies the prisoner’s wrist. Someone must sustain the soldier’s life minute by minute, for no man has this power on his own. Who supplies breath to his lungs? Who gives energy to his cells? Who holds his molecules together? Only by the Son do “all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). The victim wills that the soldier live on—he grants the warriors continued existence. The man swings. As the man swings, the Son recalls how ~ Joshua Harris,

630:I cannot get over my dislike to Lady Lowborough. It is not founded on mere personal pique; it is the woman herself that I dislike, because I so thoroughly disapprove of her. I always avoid her company as much as I can without violating the laws of hospitality; but when we do speak or converse together, it is with the utmost civility - even apparent cordiality on her part; but preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling briar-roses and may-blossoms - bright enough to the eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers. ~ Anne Bront,

631:Ah, 6655321, think on the divine suffering. Meditate on that, my boy.' And all the time he had this rich manny von of Scotch on him, and then he went off to his little cantora to peet some more. So I read all about the scourging and the crowning with thorns and then the cross veshch and all that cal, and I viddied better that there was something in it. While the stereo played bits of lovely Bach I closed my glazzies and viddied myself helping in and even taking charge of the tolchocking and the nailing in, being dressed in a like toga that was the heighth of Roman fashion. So being in Staja 84F was not all that wasted, and the Governor himself was very pleased to hear that I had taken to like Religion, and that was where I had my hopes. ~ Anthony Burgess,

632:Centuries ago, sailors on long voyages used to leave a pair of pigs on every deserted island. Or they'd leave a pair of goats. Either way, on any future visit, the island would be a source of meat. These islands, they were pristine. These were home to breeds of birds with no natural predators. Breeds of birds that lived nowhere else on earth. The plants there, without enemies they evolved without thorns or poisons. Without predators and enemies, these islands, they were paradise. The sailors, the next time they visited these islands, the only things still there would be herds of goats or pigs. .... Does this remind you of anything? Maybe the ol' Adam and Eve story? .... You ever wonder when God's coming back with a lot of barbecue sauce? ~ Chuck Palahniuk,

633:"What comes from your willing hands I take. I beg for nothing more."   "Yes, yes, I know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one has."   "If there be a stray flower for me I will wear it in my heart."   "But if there be thorns?"   "I will endure them."   "Yes, yes, I know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one has."   "If but once you should raise your loving eyes to my face it would make my life sweet beyond death."   "But if there be only cruel glances?"   "I will keep them piercing my heart."   "Yes, yes, I know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one has." ~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener XXVI - What Comes From Your Willing Hands ,

634:Inferno: Canto XIII Not yet had Nessus reached the other side, When we had put ourselves within a wood, That was not marked by any path whatever. Not foliage green, but of a dusky colour, Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled, Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison. Such tangled thickets have not, nor so dense, Those savage wild beasts, that in hatred hold 'Twixt Cecina and Corneto the tilled places. There do the hideous Harpies make their nests, Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades, With sad announcement of impending doom; Broad wings have they, and necks and faces human, And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged; They make laments upon the wondrous trees. ~ Dante Alighieri,

635:She imagined him leaning against the shuttle, entertaining thoughts of scolding her for dressing like a ragged commoner. Never mind that her present outfit was light years ahead in comfort. (Actually, he’s wishing he had been less critical of you earlier. He feels bad that you won’t acknowledge his presence, and he blames himself.) (Quit it, Ian. I’m not going to feel sorry for him.) She caught her protector’s shrewd grin, highlighted by the fire’s glow. (You already do, Queenie.) (This talent of yours is really annoying.) He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “That’s not what you thought earlier when you wanted to get ahold of Efren.” “One tiny rosebud in a handful of thorns,” she retorted. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

636:The application of their rules routinely produces immense amounts of suffering and even threatens to breakdown solid marriages as well.[96]  Their sense of compassion and mercy, however, is severely limited by their presuppositions.  To maintain their absolute certainties, they have to tell themselves that they have chosen the “narrow path” upholding God’s sexual purity codes.  As they follow in Christ’s footsteps, the thistles and thorns on both sides of the path cut into their flesh.  They are content not to be happy in this world; their eyes are on the prize in the world to come.  Being disposed to relish pain more than joy, they naturally listen to the suffering of their victims with the same disposition that they give to their own suffering.  ~ Aaron Milavec,

637:Christian, beware how thou thinkest lightly of sin. Take heed lest thou fall by little and little. Sin, a little thing? Is it not a poison? Who knows its deadliness? Sin, a little thing? Do not the little foxes spoil the grapes? Doth not the tiny coral insect build a rock which wrecks a navy? Do not little strokes fell lofty oaks? Will not continual droppings wear away stones? Sin, a little thing? It girded the Redeemer's head with thorns, and pierced His heart! It made Him suffer anguish, bitterness, and woe. Could you weigh the least sin in the scales of eternity, you would fly from it as from a serpent, and abhor the least appearance of evil. Look upon all sin as that which crucified the Saviour, and you will see it to be "exceeding sinful. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

638:Suddenly there were two strong arms around her, holding her tightly, more tightly than Triss's parents had ever dared to hug Triss. Violet smelt of oil, cigarettes, and some kind of perfume. Her coat was rough against Not-Triss's face. Not Triss could feel Pen there too, scrambling to be part of it, resting her head against Not-Triss's back. "You're all thorny," whispered Pen, shifting position. "I'll hurt you both," whispered Not-Triss. "My thorns - they'll hurt you." "What, me?" answered Violet. "Don't be silly. I'm tough as nails. I've got a hide like a dreadnought." Violet did not feel cold or metallic lke nails or a battleship. She felt warm. Her voice was a bit shaky, but her hug was as firm as the hills or the horizons. ~ Frances Hardinge,

639:After God tells Eve what is going to happen, now that she has awakened, He turns to Adam—who, along with his male descendants, doesn’t get off any easier. God says something akin to this: “Man, because you attended to the woman, your eyes have been opened. Your godlike vision, granted to you by snake, fruit and lover, allows you to see far, even into the future. But those who see into the future can also eternally see trouble coming, and must then prepare for all contingencies and possibilities. To do that, you will have to eternally sacrifice the present for the future. You must put aside pleasure for security. In short: you will have to work. And it’s going to be difficult. I hope you’re fond of thorns and thistles, because you’re going to grow a lot of them. ~ Jordan Peterson,

640:After God tells Eve what is going to happen, now that she has awakened, He turns to Adam—who, along with his male descendants, doesn’t get off any easier. God says something akin to this: “Man, because you attended to the woman, your eyes have been opened. Your godlike vision, granted to you by snake, fruit and lover, allows you to see far, even into the future. But those who see into the future can also eternally see trouble coming, and must then prepare for all contingencies and possibilities. To do that, you will have to eternally sacrifice the present for the future. You must put aside pleasure for security. In short: you will have to work. And it’s going to be difficult. I hope you’re fond of thorns and thistles, because you’re going to grow a lot of them. ~ Jordan B Peterson,

641:They’re mean bastards, those monks,” I said. I was supposed to deliver a weekly cartload of firewood to Saint Rumwold’s, but that was a duty I ignored. The monks could cut their own timber. “Who was Rumwold?” I asked Willibald. I knew the answer, but wanted to drag Willibald through the thorns. “He was a very pious child, lord,” he said. “A child?” “A baby,” he said, sighing as he saw where the conversation was leading, “a mere three days old when he died.” “A three-day-old baby is a saint?” Willibald flapped his hands. “Miracles happen, lord,” he said, “they really do. They say little Rumwold sang God’s praises whenever he suckled.” “I feel much the same when I get hold of a tit,” I said, “so does that make me a saint?” Willibald shuddered, then sensibly changed the subject. ~ Bernard Cornwell,

642:You could be my goddess queen. Together, we’d build the largest settlement on earth! With your crops and my sun, we’d feed thousands. Between your thorns and my Bagmen, we’d maintain order.” Order. Jack had wanted the same thing. I absently said, “That is something to think about. Well, except for the goddess queen part.” “Don’t knock that part, pequeña. It’s my favorite detail about our future. We would do our duty and repopulate the world. Because we are givers. I, myself, would be devoted to giving.” I quirked a brow at him. “No kids for me. Would you really bring children into a world like this?” Eyes alight with playfulness, he said, “No. It was just an excuse to get in your pants.” “Ugh. Behave. Or you’ll get a vine where the sun don’t shine. ~ Kresley Cole,

643: ~ William Butler Yeats, He Mourns For The Change That Has Come Upon Him And His Beloved, And Longs For The End Of The World Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns? I have been changed to a hound with one red ear; I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns, For somebody hid hatred and hope and desire and fear Under my feet that they follow you night and day. A man with a hazel wand came without sound; He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way; And now my calling is but the calling of a hound; And Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by. I would that the Boar without bristles had come from the West And had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky And lay in the darkness, grunting, and turning to his rest. ,

644:I. Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts, Live not through the waste of time! Loves rose a host of thorns invests; Cold, ungenial is the clime, Where its honours blow. Youth says, The purple flowers are mine, Which die the while they glow. II. Dear the boon to Fancy given, Retracted whilst its granted: Sweet the rose which lives in Heaven, Although on earth tis planted, Where its honours blow, While by earths slaves the leaves are riven Which die the while they glow. III. Age cannot Love destroy, But perfidy can blast the flower, Even when in most unwary hour It blooms in Fancys bower. Age cannot Love destroy, But perfidy can rend the shrine In which its vermeil splendours shine. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Loves Rose ,

645:The two of them had fallen into the habit of bartering knowledge whenever she visited. He schooled her in jazz, in bebop and exotic bossa nova, playing his favorites for her while he painted- Slim Gaillard, Rita Reys, King Pleasure, and Jimmy Giuffre- stabbing the air with his brush when there was a particular passage he wanted her to note. In turn, she showed him the latest additions to her birding diary- her sketches of the short-eared owl and American wigeon, the cedar waxwing and late warblers. She explained how the innocent-looking loggerhead shrike killed its prey by biting it in the back of the neck, severing the spinal cord before impaling the victim on thorns or barbed wire and tearing it apart. "Good grief," he'd said, shuddering. "I'm in the clutches of an avian Vincent Price. ~ Tracy Guzeman,

646:In time, Arjuna tires of mere beauty and hearing tales about the valour of princess Chitrangada, he seeks her out. The princess then reveals her true self to Arjuna. Her words are one of the most beautiful declarations of the angst of a woman, ‘I am not beautifully perfect as the flowers with which I worship. I have many flaws and blemishes. I am a traveller in the great world-path, my garments are dirty, and my feet are bleeding with thorns. Where should I achieve flower-beauty, the unsullied loveliness of a moment’s life? The gift that I proudly bring you is the heart of a woman. Here have all pains and joys gathered, the hopes and fears and shames of a daughter of the dust; here love springs up struggling towards immortal life. Herein lies an imperfection which yet is noble and grand. ~ Devdutt Pattanaik,

647:He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. ~ James Joyce,

648:The trouble is, when you gift a girl with flowers your choice can be construed so many different ways. A man might give you a rose because he feels you are beautiful, or because he fancies their shade or shape or softness similar to your lips. Roses are expensive, and perhaps he wishes to show through a valuable gift that you are valuable to him. When a man gives you a rose what you see may not be what he intends. You may think he sees you as delicate or frail. Perhaps you dislike a suitor who considers you sweet and nothing else. Perhaps the stem is thorn, and you assume he thinks you likely to hurt a hand too quick to touch. But if he trims the thorns you might think he has no liking for a thing that can defend itself with sharpness. There's so many ways a thing can be interpreted. ~ Patrick Rothfuss,

649:A Summer Wish Live all thy sweet life through, Sweet Rose, dew-sprent, Drop down thine evening dew To gather it anew When day is bright: I fancy thou wast meant Chiefly to give delight. Sing in the silent sky, Glad soaring bird; Sing out thy notes on high To sunbeam straying by Or passing cloud; Heedless if thou art heard Sing thy full song aloud. Oh that it were with me As with the flower; Blooming on its own tree For butterfly and bee Its summer morns: That I might bloom mine hour A rose in spite of thorns. Oh that my work were done As birds' that soar Rejoicing in the sun: That when my time is run And daylight too, I so might rest once more Cool with refreshing dew. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

650:I remind myself of what old Trust, when I came to know him well, told me: "Sheep and men are very much alike," said Trust, who thought both very poor creatures. "Very much alike, indeed. They go in flocks; and can't give a reason why. They leave their fleece on any bramble that is strong enough to insist on fleecing them. They bleat loud at imagined evils, while they tumble straight into real dangers. And for going oil' the line, there's nothing like them. There may be pits, thorns, quagmires, spring-guns, what not, the other side of the hedge, but go off the straight track they will; and no dog can stop them. It's just the sheer love of straying. You may bark at them right and left, go they will, though they break their legs down a limekiln. Oh, men and sheep are wonderfully similar, take them.all in all. ~ Ouida,

651:Maidenhood THROUGH her fair world of blossoms fresh and bright, Veiled with her maiden innocence, she goes; Not all the splendour of the waxing light She sees, nor all the colour of the rose; And yet who knows what finer hues she sees, Hid by our wisdom from our longing eyes? Who knows what light she sees in skies and seas Which is withholden from our seas and skies? Shod with her youth the thorny paths she treads And feels not yet the treachery of the thorn, Her crown of lilies still its perfume sheds Where Love, the thorny crown, not yet is borne. Yet in the mystery of her peaceful way Who knows what fears beset her innocence, Who, trembling, learns that thorns will wound some day, And wonders what thorns are, and why, and whence? ~ Edith Nesbit,

652:THE WEATHER OF LOVE Love Has a way of wilting Or blossoming At the strangest, Most unpredictable hour. This is how love is, An uncontrollable beast In the form of a flower. The sun does not always shine on it. Nor does the rain always pour on it Nor should it always get beaten by a storm. Love does not always emit the sweetest scents, And sometimes it can sting with its thorns. Water it. Give it plenty of sunlight. Nurture it, And the flower of love will Outlive you. Neglect it or keep dissecting it, And its petals will quickly curl up and die. This is how love is, Perfection is a delusional vision. So love the person who loves you Unconditionally, And abandon the one Who only loves you Under favorable Conditions. ~ Suzy Kassem,

653:The canyon is a ladder to the plain. The valley is pale in the end of July, when the corn and melons come of age and slowly the fields are made ready for the yield, and a faint, false air of autumn—an illusion still in the land—rises somewhere away in the high north country, a vague suspicion of red and yellow on the farthest summits. And the town lies out like a scattering of bones in the heart of the land, low in the valley, where the earth is a kiln and the soil is carried here and there in the wind and all harvests are a poor survival of the seed. It is a remote place, and divided from the rest of the world by a great forked range of mountains on the north and west; by wasteland on the south and east, a region of dunes and thorns and burning columns of air; and more than these by time and silence. ~ N Scott Momaday,

654:It is a stubble field, where a black rain is falling. It is a brown tree, that stands alone. It is a hissing wind, that encircles empty houses. How melancholy the evening is. A while later, The soft orphan garners the sparse ears of corn. Her eyes graze, round and golden, in the twilight And her womb awaits the heavenly bridegroom. On the way home The shepherd found the sweet body Decayed in a bush of thorns. I am a shadow far from darkening villages. I drank the silence of God Out of the stream in the trees. Cold metal walks on my forehead. Spiders search for my heart. It is a light that goes out in my mouth. At night, I found myself on a pasture, Covered with rubbish and the dust of stars. In a hazel thicket Angels of crystal rang out once more. ~ Georg Trakl,

655:Marriage Morning Light, so low upon earth, You send a flash to the sun. Here is the golden close of love, All my wooing is done. Oh, the woods and the meadows, Woods where we hid from the wet, Stiles where we stay'd to be kind, Meadows in which we met! Light, so low in the vale You flash and lighten afar, For this is the golden morning of love, And you are his morning start. Flash, I am coming, I come, By meadow and stile and wood, Oh, lighten into my eyes and heart, Into my heart and my blood! Heart, are you great enough For a love that never tires? O' heart, are you great enough for love? I have heard of thorns and briers, Over the meadow and stiles, Over the world to the end of it Flash for a million miles. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

656:But she’s a ghost. And a demon.” “Might be a closer struggle than otherwise,” Edmund agreed heavily. “But he does have us.” “Oh, good,” said Reggie. And a little voice in the back of her head asked her why they were even bothering to come out. If Janet’s trap had worked, if Colin, the part-dragon, the magician with more than a century of life behind him, was actually in danger, what exactly did Reggie think two mortals and a few lead projectiles would accomplish? She told the voice to remember fables about mice and lions and traps—or was that thorns?—that in setting her trap for large prey, Janet might have left smaller openings unguarded, that there had to be a reason mortals were running so much of the world. Then she told the voice to go to the devil. Then she wished she hadn’t thought of the devil. ~ Isabel Cooper,

657:Maybe sometimes you have to tell a story crossways, because to tell it straight would ongly [sic] mean that it go straight by the person's ears who it intend for. For consider the words of Jesus when the blessed Savior go up on the mountain him did decide to speak in parables. He never just tell them that all of them was heathens, and that not a one of them could reach Heaven without him. Instead he talk bout hard ground and soft ground and ground that was full of macka and thorns; . . . him talk bout a lost sheep who finally make him way home. And maybe it afterwards, when you gather all of these crossway stories, and you put them together, that you finally see a line had been running through all of them. Sometimes you have to tell a story the way you dream a dream, and everyone know that dreams don't walk straight." (251) ~ Kei Miller,

658:Doubt swells and surges, with swelling doubt behind! My soul in storm is but a tattered sail, Streaming its ribbons on the torrent gale; In calm, 'tis but a limp and flapping thing: Oh! swell it with thy breath; make it a wing, To sweep through thee the ocean, with thee the wind Nor rest until in thee its haven it shall find. Roses are scentless, hopeless are the morns, Rest is but weakness, laughter crackling thorns, But love is life. To die of love is then The only pass to higher life than this. All love is death to loving, living men; All deaths are leaps across clefts to the abyss. Weakness needs pity, sometimes love's rebuke; Strength only sympathy deserves and draws - And grows by every faithful loving look. Ripeness must always come with loss of might. ~ George MacDonald,

659:So, what did you think of the Unseelie Court?" A slow, wicked smile spread on his face. "Oh, Kaye," he breathed. "It was marvelous. It was perfect." She narrowed her gaze. "I was joking. They were killing things, Corny. For fun. Things like us." He didn't seem to hear her, his eyes looking past her to the bright window. "There was this knight, not yours. He ... " Corny shivered and seemed to abruptly change the direction of his sentence. "He had a cloak all lined with thorns." "I saw him talking to the Queen," Kaye said. Corny shrugged off his jacket. There were long scratches along his arms. "What happened to you?" Corny's smile widened, but his gaze was locked in some memory. He shifted it back to her. "Well, obviously I got inside the cloak." She snorted. "What a euphemism. ~ Holly Black,

660:Song I came to the door of the House of Love And knocked as the starry night went by; And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said "It is I." And Love looked down from a lattice above Where the roses were dry as the lips of the dead: "There is not room in the House of Love For you both," he said. I plucked a leaf from the porch and crept Away through a desert of scoffs and scorns To a lonely place where I prayed and wept And wove me a crown of thorns. I came once more to the House of Love And knocked, ah, softly and wistfully, And my true love cried "Who knocks?" and I said "None now but thee." And the great doors opened wide apart And a voice rang out from a glory of light, "Make room, make room for a faithful heart In the House of Love, to-night." ~ Alfred Noyes,

661:John scrambled up and down the terraces and banks, hunting out the secret breaks in the thickets or crawling through hollows woven from sharp-spined stems. Blackberries lured him into sun-pricked chambers. Old byways closed and new ones opened, drifts of nettles surging forward then dying back. The sun beat down until the grass on the green parched. But on the high slopes the rank stems sprang up as lush as ever. Springs ran beneath the turf, his mother told him. Enough water to fill a river. Together they pulled peppery watercress from the edges of marshy puddles and grubbed up tiny sweet carrots, dark purple under the dusty earth. Clover petals yielded honey-beads and jellylike mallow seeds savored of nuts. Tiny strawberries sheltered under ragged leaves and sweet blackberries swelled behind palisades of finger-pricking thorns. ~ Lawrence Norfolk,

662:Thistle-Down Beyond a ridge of pine with russet tips The west lifts to the sun her longing lips, Her blushes stain with gold and garnet dye The shore, the river and the wide far sky; Like floods of wine the waters filter through The reeds that brush our indolent canoe. I beach the bow where sands in shadows lie; You hold my hand a space, then speak good-bye. Upwinds your pathway through the yellow plumes Of goldenrod, profuse in August blooms, And o'er its tossing sprays you toss a kiss; A moment more, and I see only this-The idle paddle you so lately held, The empty bow your pliant wrist propelled, Some thistles purpling into violet, Their blossoms with a thousand thorns afret, And like a cobweb, shadowy and grey, Far floats their down--far drifts my dream away. ~ Emily Pauline Johnson,

663:What would you think of an engineer who expounded the art of flying without revealing the secrets of the engine and propeller? That's what you do, you engineer of the human soul. Just that. You're a coward. You want the raisins out of my cake but you don't want the thorns of my roses. Haven't you too, little psychiatrist, been cracking silly jokes about me? Haven't you ridiculed me as "the prophet of bigger and better orgasms"? Have you never heard the whimpering of a young wife whose body has been desecrated by an impotent husband? Or the anguished cry of an adolescent bursting with unfulfilled love? Does your security still mean more to you than your patient? How long will you go on valuing your respectability above your medical mission? How long will you refuse to see that your pussyfooting procrastination is costing millions their lives? ~ Wilhelm Reich,

664:Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine. Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns, the gold when we meet, the season ablaze, the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames, and the black when you cover the earth with the coal of dead fires. And the sky, the road, the glass of wine? The sky is a shirt wet with tears, the road a vein about to break, and the glass of wine a mirror in which the sky, the road, the world keep changing. Don’t leave now that you’re here— Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine. ~ Faiz Ahmad Faiz,

665:Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

666:MAT13.19 When any one heareth the word of the kingdom, and understandeth it not, then cometh the wicked one, and catcheth away that which was sown in his heart. This is he which received seed by the way side. MAT13.20 But he that received the seed into stony places, the same is he that heareth the word, and anon with joy receiveth it; MAT13.21 Yet hath he not root in himself, but dureth for a while: for when tribulation or persecution ariseth because of the word, by and by he is offended. MAT13.22 He also that received seed among the thorns is he that heareth the word; and the care of this world, and the deceitfulness of riches, choke the word, and he becometh unfruitful. MAT13.23 But he that received seed into the good ground is he that heareth the word, and understandeth it; which also beareth fruit, and bringeth forth, some an hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty. ~ Anonymous,

667:Centuries ago, sailors on long voyages used to leave a pair of pigs on every deserted island. Or they'd leave a pair of goats. Either way, on any future visit, the island would be a source of meat. These islands, they were pristine. These were home to breeds of birds with no natural predators. Breeds of birds that lived nowhere else on earth. The plants there, without enemies they evolved without thorns or poisons. Without predators and enemies, these islands, they were paradise. The sailors, the next time they visited these islands, the only things still there would be herds of goats or pigs. Oyster is telling this story. The sailors called this "seeding meat." Oyster says, "Does this remind you of anything? Maybe the ol' Adam and Eve story?" Looking out the car window, he says, "You ever wonder when God's coming back with a lot of barbecue sauce? ~ Chuck Palahniuk,

668:Jee Nehein Lagta Ujrey Diyaar Mein (English) My heart has no repose in this despoiled land Who has ever felt fulfilled in this futile world? The nightingale complains about neither the sentinel nor the hunter Fate had decreed imprisonment during the harvest of spring Tell these longings to go dwell elsewhere What space is there for them in this besmirched heart? Sitting on a branch of flowers, the nightingale rejoices It has strewn thorns in the garden of my heart I asked for a long life, I received four days Two passed in desire, two in waiting. The days of life are over, evening has fallen I shall sleep, legs outstretched, in my tomb How unfortunate is Zafar! For his burial Not even two yards of land were to be had, in the land of his beloved. [Translation from Urdu Poem 'Jee Nehein Lagta Ujrey Diyaar Mein'] ~ Bahadur Shah,

669:Lleu is a hard lord,” said Huw, “He is killing Gronw without anger, without love, without mercy. He is hurt too much by the woman and the spear. Yet what is there when it is done? His pride. No spear. No friend.” Roger started at Huw. “You’re not so green as you’re grass-looking, are you?” he said. “Now you mention it, I have been thinking— That bloke Gronw was the only one with any real guts at the end.” “But none of them is all to blame,” said Huw. “It is only together they are destroying each other.” “That Blod-woman was pretty poor,” said Roger, “however you look at it.” “No,” said Huw. “She was made for her lord. Nobody is asking her if she wants him. It is bitter twisting to be shut up with a person you are not liking very much. I think she was longing for the time when she was flowers on the mountain, and it is making her cruel, as the rose is growing thorns. ~ Alan Garner,

670:A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. ~ James Joyce,

671:Cain, the firstborn son of Adam and Eve, had also been the first to start his own religion. He came to Jehovah not as Jehovah decreed, with an innocent lamb slain for his sins, but with the fruit of the field. Cain toiled in the ground cursed by Jehovah, and after stabbed by thorns and with blistered hands he brought to Jehovah his best. He had worked his way to Jehovah. He had taken what would forever be known as the ‘way of Cain.’  He tried to purchase Jehovah’s favor through his best effort. For Cain it was with his best fruits and grains, first grown in the ground by hard labor and then harvested by the sweat of his brow. He rejected Jehovah’s revealed way. Sacrificing a lamb, ah, so bloody and crude and barbarous, and showing that man’s sinfulness required something that man himself would never be good enough to pay for—it was an insult to a proud man, and Cain was very proud. ~ Vaughn Heppner,

672:Well, it was really very pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to purposes. Here was this Mr Gridley, a man of a robust will, and surprising energy—intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmonious blacksmith*—and he could easily imagine that there Gridley was, years ago, wandering about in life for something to expend his superfluous combativeness upon—a sort of Young Love among the thorns—when the Court of Chancery came in his way, and accommodated him with the exact thing he wanted. There they were, matched, ever afterwards! Otherwise he might have been a great general, blowing up all sorts of towns, or he might have been a great politician, dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric; but, as it was, he and the Court of Chancery had fallen upon each other in the pleasantest way, and nobody was much the worse, and Gridley was, so to speak, from that hour provided for. ~ Charles Dickens,

673:Now he haunts me seldom: some fierce umbilical is broken, I live with my own fragile hopes and sudden rising despair. Now I do not weep for my sins; I have learned to love them And to know that they are the wounds that make love real. His face illudes me; his voice, with its pity, does not ring in my ear. His maxims memorized in boyhood do not make fruitless and pointless my experience. I walk alone, but not so terrified as when he held my hand. I do not splash in the blood of his son nor hear the crunch of nails or thorns piercing protesting flesh. I am a boy again--I whose boyhood was turned to manhood in a brutal myth. Now wine is only wine with drops that do not taste of blood. The bread I eat has too much pride for transubstantiation, I, too--and together the bread and I embrace, Each grateful to be what we are, each loving from our own reality. ~ James Kavanaugh,

674:Roses climbed the shed, entwined with dark purple clematis, leaves as glossy as satin. There were no thorns. Patience's cupboard was overflowing with remedies, and the little barn was often crowded with seekers. The half acre of meadow was wild with cosmos and lupine, coreopsis, and sweet William. Basil, thyme, coriander, and broad leaf parsley grew in billowing clouds of green; the smell so fresh your mouth watered and you began to plan the next meal. Cucumbers spilled out of the raised beds, fighting for space with the peas and beans, lettuce, tomatoes, and bright yellow peppers. The cart was righted out by the road and was soon bowed under glass jars and tin pails of sunflowers, zinnias, dahlias, and salvia. Pears, apples, and out-of-season apricots sat in balsa wood baskets in the shade, and watermelons, some with pink flesh, some with yellow, all sweet and seedless, lined the willow fence. ~ Ellen Herrick,

675:His fantasies were nurturing, not predatory. If he could have Jess, he would feed her. Laughable, antique, confusingly paternal, he longed to nourish her with clementines, and pears in season, fresh whole-wheat bread and butter, wild strawberries, comte cheese, fresh figs and oily Marcona almond, tender yellow beets. He would sear red meat, if she would let him, and grill spring lamb. Cut the thorns off artichokes and dip the leaves in fresh aioli, poach her fish- thick Dover sole in wine and shallots- julienne potatoes, and roast a whole chicken with lemon slices under the skin. He would serve a salad of heirloom tomatoes and fresh mozzarella and just-picked basil. Serve her and watch her savor dinner, pour for her, and watch her drink. That would be enough for him. To find her plums in season, and perfect nectarines, velvet apricots, dark succulent duck. To bring her all these things and watch her eat. ~ Allegra Goodman,

676:They forget that those tiny little hands in the manger, those tiny little hands embraced by Simeon, those hands were made so that nails might be driven through them.  Those baby feet, not yet able to walk, they were made to walk up Golgotha to be nailed to the cross.  The head of baby Jesus was made so that someday wicked men would press down a crown of thorns into it, drawing his precious blood.  This baby’s soft tummy would someday be violently ripped open by a spear.  So many forget that the manger leads to the cross.  Jesus was born to die and when we speak about that, we find rejection by so many.  When we speak about why he had to die, when we speak about our sin and the wrath of God, people turn off and tune out.   When you see the Messiah in the big picture of our salvation, he is a divisive figure.  He divides people into two groups:  unbelievers and believers.  It was that way in his day and still is today. ~ Anonymous,

677:As human beings, we must help one another to bear all kinds of human misfortune and the curse that has come upon us. We must be ready to live among wicked people, and there everyone must be ready to prove his holiness instead of becoming impatient and running away. On earth, we have to live amid thorns and thistles (Gen. 3:18), in a situation full of temptation, hostility, and misfortune. Hence, it does not help you at all to run away from other people, for within you are still carrying the same old scoundrel, the lust and evil appetite that clings to your flesh and blood. Even fi you are all alone, with the door locked, you still cannot deny your father and mother; nor can you discard your flesh and blood and leave them on the ground. You have no call to pick up your feet and run away, but to stay put, to stand and battle against every kind of temptation like a knight, and with patience to see it through and to triumph. ~ Martin Luther,

678:It’ll be hard not to tease your folk sometimes.” Brishen couldn’t imagine how she might go about such a thing.  He had no idea if the Kai and the Gauri even knew the same jokes or found the same things funny.  “What do you mean?” He almost leapt out of his skin when Ildiko stared at him as both of her eyes drifted slowly down and over until they seemed to meet together, separated only by the elegant bridge of her nose. “Lover of thorns and holy gods!” he yelped and clapped one hand across her eyes to shut out the sight.  “Stop that,” he ordered. Ildiko laughed and pushed his hand away.  She laughed even harder when she caught sight of his expression.  “Wait,” she gasped on a giggle.  “I can do better.  Want to see me make one eye cross and have the other stay still?” Brishen reared back.  “No!”  He grimaced.  “Nightmarish.  I’ll thank you to keep that particular talent to yourself, wife. ~ Grace Draven,

679:What struck me on the beach–and it struck me indeed, so that I staggered as at a blow–was that if the Eternal Principle had rested in that curved thorn I had carried about my neck across so many leagues, and if it now rested in the new thorn (perhaps the same thorn) I had only now put there, then it might rest in everything, in every thorn in every bush, in every drop of water in the sea. The thorn was a sacred Claw because all thorns were sacred Claws; the sand in my boots was sacred sand because it came from a beach of sacred sand. The cenobites treasured up the relics of the sannyasins because the sannyasins had approached the Pancreator. But everything had approached and even touched the Pancreator, because everything had dropped from his hand. Everything was a relic. All the world was a relic. I drew off my boots, that had traveled with me so far, and threw them into the waves that I might not walk shod on holy ground. ~ Gene Wolfe,

680:Forth flashed the serpent streak of steel, Consummate crown of man's device; Down crashed upon an immobile And brainless barrier of ice. Courage! The grey gods shoot a laughing lip: - Let not faith founder with the ship! We reel before the blows of fate; Our stout souls stagger at the shock. Oh! there is Something ultimate Fixed faster than the living rock. Courage! Catastrophe beyond belief Harden our hearts to fear and grief! The gods upon the Titans shower Their high intolerable scorn; But no god knoweth in what hour A new Prometheus may be born. Courage! Man to his doom goes driving down; A crown of thorns is still a crown! No power of nature shall withstand At last the spirit of mankind: It is not built upon the sand; It is not wastrel to the wind. Courage! Disaster and destruction tend To taller triumph in the end. ~ Aleister Crowley, The Titanic ,

681:The Titanic Forth flashed the serpent streak of steel, Consummate crown of man's device; Down crashed upon an immobile And brainless barrier of ice. Courage! The grey gods shoot a laughing lip: Let not faith founder with the ship! We reel before the blows of fate; Our stout souls stagger at the shock. Oh! there is Something ultimate Fixed faster than the living rock. Courage! Catastrophe beyond belief Harden our hearts to fear and grief! The gods upon the Titans shower Their high intolerable scorn; But no god knoweth in what hour A new Prometheus may be born. Courage! Man to his doom goes driving down; A crown of thorns is still a crown! No power of nature shall withstand At last the spirit of mankind: It is not built upon the sand; It is not wastrel to the wind. Courage! Disaster and destruction tend To taller triumph in the end. ~ Aleister Crowley,

682:I took the liberty of designing your pennant,” said Rhy, resting his elbows on the gallery’s marble banister. “I hope you don’t mind.” Kell cringed. “Do I even want to know what’s on it?” Rhy tugged the folded piece of fabric from his pocket, and handed it over. The cloth was red, and when he unfolded it, he saw the image of a rose in black and white. The rose had been mirrored, folded along the center axis and reflected, so the design was actually two flowers, surrounded by a coil of thorns. “How subtle,” said Kell tonelessly. “You could at least pretend to be grateful.” “And you couldn’t have picked something a little more … I don’t know … imposing? A serpent? A great beast? A bird of prey?” “A bloody handprint?” retorted Rhy. “Oh, what about a glowing black eye?” Kell glowered. “You’re right,” continued Rhy, “I should have just drawn a frowning face. But then everyone would know it’s you. I thought this was rather fitting. ~ Victoria Schwab,

683:What struck me on the beach and it struck me indeed, so that I staggered as at a blow—was that if the Eternal Principle had rested in that curved thorn I had carried about my neck across so many leagues, and if it now rested in the new thorn (perhaps the same thorn) I had only now put there, then it might rest in anything, and in fact probably did rest in everything, in every thorn on every bush, in every drop of water in the sea. The thorn was a sacred Claw because all thorns were sacred Claws; the sand in my boots was sacred sand because it came from a beach of sacred sand. The cenobites treasured up the relics of the sannyasins because the sannyasins had approached the Pancreator. But everything had approached and even touched the Pancreator, because everything had dropped from his hand. Everything was a relic. All the world was a relic. I drew off my boots, that had traveled with me so far, and threw them into the waves that I might not walk shod on holy ground. ~ Gene Wolfe,

684:The Tragedy Of Self Made People Those who tempers optimistic, bright and buoyant, what unusual fates they have. Cleansing life's path of thorns strewn, assembling each straw to build a nest, trapping fragrance, adorning gardens, their life is spent. Their life consumed, they gift the flowers. give all away. Not that, the drudgery of the unending toil goes unrewarded, blood-money for longings that die goes unpaid. All pleasures that life enfolds, come their way; with one and all they are endowed, but late always, ever delayed. Rewarded they are for the slog, the grind but bit by bit, like borrowed money returned in parts; the actual writing fading into the hidden rear. In teeming spring, 46 their flowers all are the last to bloom; the sun in their courtyards appears late. [Translated from Urdu by Yasmeen Hameed] ~ Amjad Islam Amjad,

685:For millions of years flowers have been producing thorns. For millions of years sheep have been eating them all the same. And it's not serious, trying to understand why flowers go to such trouble to produce thorns that are good for nothing? It's not important, the war between the sheep and the flowers? It's no more serious and more important than the numbers that fat red gentleman is adding up? Suppose I happen to know a unique flower, one that exists nowhere in the world except on my planet, one that a little sheep can wipe out in a single bite one morning, just like that, without even realizing what he'd doing - that isn't important? If someone loves a flower of which just one example exists among all the millions and millions of stars, that's enough to make him happy when he looks at the stars. He tells himself 'My flower's up there somewhere...' But if the sheep eats the flower, then for him it's as if, suddenly, all the stars went out. And that isn't important? ~ Antoine de Saint Exup ry,

686:We just think that we're being born, when we're born; (headfirst crying out of the smile of the womb, if we'd only known that it was all the same before getting involved in Samsara---saving motion and nervousness, not forsaking peace---I remember being forced out---to the discriminatory prickles and thorns of the world)--- We're still the same old substance, High Hearable Essence Light---(whatever it really is, & Empty)--- Unbornness is the above--- We just think that we're dying, when we die!---headfirst falling in the airplane, falling once again, from stage-emptiness to stage-emptiness---unborn and undying and undead---Birth and death not a dualism, no difference---same Dharmakaya Universal Essence--- No death, no birth, no error, no "prose", but uncreated single substance essence flow of transitory unreal words riding an unreal ride across the memory of the unreal word, I can't say that the world is Not that it is not - Because it is just from Mind ~ Jack Kerouac,

687:Throughout the course of the generations men constructed the night. At first she was blindness; thorns raking bare feet, fear of wolves. We shall never know who forged the word for the interval of shadow dividing the two twilights; we shall never know in what age it came to mean the starry hours. Others created the myth. They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates that spin our destiny, they sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock who crows his own death. The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses; to Zeno, infinite words. She took shape from Latin hexameters and the terror of Pascal. Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland of his stricken soul. Now we feel her to be inexhaustible like an ancient wine and no one can gaze on her without vertigo and time has charged her with eternity. And to think that she wouldn't exist except for those fragile instruments, the eyes. ~ Jorge Luis Borges, History Of The Night ,

688:You’re a prickly, stubborn, spirited woman.” “Don’t forget crude, rude, and vulgar.” “Only when it suits you. You’re sly when occasion calls for it, direct to the point of forgetting tact even exists, sarcastic, fierce, I did mention stubborn, didn’t I?” “Yes,” she said dryly. “You’re also smart, kind, gentle, beautiful, and always cling to your personal integrity, even when it’s in your best interests to abandon it.” A little warm feeling spread through her chest, and even her natural suspicion that he was lying couldn’t quite extinguish it. Where was he going with this? “You’re also quite funny,” he said. “Oh, I amuse you?” He gave her one of his devastating, slightly wicked smiles. “You have no idea.” Arrogant ass. “And all of that means what?” “Just that I mean to have you.” She frowned at him. “I mean to have you, Rose, you and all of your thorns. I’m a disagreeable and stubborn bastard, but I’m not a fool. You didn’t really expect me to pass you up, did you? ~ Ilona Andrews,

689:We return to face our superiors, our kindred, our friends--- those whom we obey, and those whom we love; but even they who have neither, the most free, lonely, irresponsible and bereft of ties, --- even those for whom home holds no dear face, no familiar voice, --- even they have to meet the spirit that dwells within the land, under its sky, in its air, in its valleys, and on its rises, in its fields, in its waters and its tress--- a mute friend, judge, and inspirer. Say what you like, to get its joy, to breathe its peace, to face its truth, one must return with a clear conscience. All this may seem to you sheer sentimentalism; and indeed very few of us have the will or capacity to look consciously under the surface of familiar emotions. There are the girls we love, the men we look up to, the tenderness, the friendships, the opportunities, the pleasures! But the fact remains that you must touch your reward with clean hands, lest it turn to dead leaves, to thorns, in your grasp. ~ Joseph Conrad,

690:Quid Non Supremus, Amantes? Why is there in the least touch of her hands More grace than other women's lips bestow, If love is but a slave in fleshly bands Of flesh to flesh, wherever love may go? Why choose vain grief and heavy-hearted hours For her lost voice, and dear remembered hair, If love may cull his honey from all flowers, And girls grow thick as violets, everywhere? Nay! She is gone, and all things fall apart; Or she is cold, and vainly have we prayed; And broken is the summer's splendid heart, And hope within a deep, dark grave is laid. As man aspires and falls, yet a soul springs Out of his agony of flesh at last, So love that flesh enthralls, shall rise on wings Soul-centred, when the rule of flesh is past. Then, most High Love, or wreathed with myrtle sprays, Or crownless and forlorn, nor less a star, Thee may I serve and follow, all my days, Whose thorns are sweet as never roses are! ~ Ernest Christopher Dowson,

691:The Rose With the flowery crowned spring Now the vernal rose we sing; Sons of mirth, your sprightly lays Mix with ours, to sound its praise: Rose, the gods' and men's sweet flower; Rose, the Graces' paramour: This of Muses the delight, This is Venus' favourite; Sweet, when guarded by sharp thorns; Sweet, when it soft hands adorns; How at mirthful boards admir'd! How at Bacchus' feasts desir'd! Fair without it what is born? Rosy-finger'd is the Morn; Rosy-arm'd the nymphs we name; Rosy-cheek'd Love's queen proclaim: This relief 'gainst sickness lends; This the very dead befriends; This Time's malice doth prevent, Old retains its youthful scent. When Cythera from the main, Pallas sprung from Jove's crack'd brain, Then the rose receiv'd its birth From the youthful teeming earth; Every god was its protector, Wat'ring it by turns with nectar, Till from thorns it grew, and prov'd Of Lyæus the belov'd. ~ Anacreon,

692:Decreed Into all lives some rain must fall, Into all eyes some tear-drops start, Whether they fall as gentle shower, Or fall like fire from an aching heart. Into all hearts some sorrow must creep, Into all souls some doubtings come, Lashing the waves of life's great deep From dimpling waters to seething foam. Over all paths some clouds must lower, Under all feet some sharp thorns spring, Tearing the flesh to bitter wounds, Or entering the heart with their bitter sting. Upon all brows rough winds must blow, Over all shoulders a cross be lain, Bowing the form in its lofty height Down to the dust in bitter pain. Into all hands some duty's thrust; Unto all arms some burden's given, Crushing the heart with its weary weight, Or lifting the soul from earth to heaven. Into all hearts and homes and lives God's dear sunlight comes streaming down, Gilding the ruins of life's great plain-Weaving for all a golden crown. ~ Anonymous Americas,

693:With effort he opened his eyes again. Was someone there with him in the dusk? Yes. Someone was standing above him, looking down at him. Tom squinted, trying to see through the gloom. Then he realized: no. It was only the scorched painting on the wall. Those painted eyes with the line of blood trickling down beside them. 'Bad day,' he thought up at them. 'It seems I've been murdered.' 'Yes,' responded the eyes at once. 'That happens sometimes when you insist on telling the truth. People don't always appreciate it.' 'It's not so bad really,' Tom told the eyes. 'Maybe I'll get to see you in heaven.' 'The road to heaven isn't death, Tommy. It's life.' Tom peered up at the eyes through the growing darkness. He thought he saw the whole painting recovered in its frame: Christ crucified, the rivulets of blood streaming down from under his crown of thorns. 'But you died.' Tom said to him. 'You died and went to heaven.' 'No,' the eyes answered. 'I lived. That's the whole point. I lived. And now you have to live, Tom. ~ Andrew Klavan,

694:I would never let any man hurt you, Rose. I would die first.” “I know. And that is why I am going back to Ireland with you.” She stroked his hair, and he pulled her onto his lap. “When that man pulled me out of the carriage—” “—I was going to kill him,” Iain finished. She touched his mouth with her finger. “No. What I meant was that I realized something about myself. When I saw those men fighting you, I wanted to tear them to pieces.” She smiled at the incongruity of it all. “I will be fine in Ireland, despite all the hardships. Because it means I will see you each day. No matter what happens, I will love you. And I am strong enough to face anything, so long as I am with you.” “My rose has thorns when she needs them.” He kissed her gently and traced the edge of her cheek. “I will be glad to make you my wife, a ghrá. And I promise that I will work myself to the bone, to give you everything you want.” She wrapped her arms around him and held him close. “Iain, you needn’t bother. For everything I want is right here. ~ Michelle Willingham,

695:O wind, songs have ye in her name? Plucked her did ye from midnight blasted millyard winds and made her renown ring in stone and brick and ice? Hard implacable bridges of iron cross her milk of brows? God bent from his steel arc welded her a hammer of honey and of balm? The rutted mud of hardrock Time . . . was it wetted, springified, greened, blossomied for me to grow in nameless bloodied lutey naming of her? Wood on cold trees would her coffin bare? Keys of stone rippled by icy streaks would ope my needy warm interiors and make her eat the soft sin of me? No iron bend or melt to make my rocky travail ease--I was all alone, my fate was banged behind an iron door, I'd come like butter looking for Hot Metals to love, I'd raise my feeble orgone bones and let them be rove and split the half and goop the big sad eyes to see it and say nothing. The laurel wreath is made of iron, and thorns of nails; acid spit, impossible mountains, and incomprehensible satires of blank humanity--congeal, cark, sink and seal my blood-- ~ Jack Kerouac,

696:Smiles Smile a little, smile a little, As you go along, Not alone when life is pleasant, But when things go wrong. Care delights to see you frowning, Loves to hear you sigh; Turn a smiling face upon her – Quick the dame will fly. Smile a little, smile a little, All along the road; Every life must have its burden, Every heart its load. Why sit down in gloom and darkness With your grief to sup? As you drink Fate’s bitter tonic, Smile across the cup. Smile upon the troubled pilgrims Whom you pass and meet; Frowns are thorns, and smiles are blossoms Oft for weary feet. Do not make the way seem harder By a sullen face; Smile a little, smile a little, Brighten up the place. Smile upon your undone labour; Not for one who grieves O’er his task waits wealth or glory; He who smiles achieves. Though you meet with loss and sorrow In the passing years, Smile a little, smile a little, Even through your tears. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

697:I had worked just as hard as I knew how to be the new and squeaky-clean straight-arrow family man I was supposed to be, and at each attempt I had been slapped down, sneered at, and utterly crushed. Irritation grew inside me and morphed into anger, and then that started to change, too, as I felt a cold and acid bath of contempt burble up inside: contempt for Brian, and Rita, and Deborah, and Cody and Astor, for all the dribbling idiots in the whole stumble-footed world— —and most of all, contempt for me, Dexter the Dummkopf, who wanted to walk in the sunlight, smelling the flowers and watching rainbows curl across the rose-tinted sky. But I had forgotten that the sun is nearly always hidden by clouds, flowers have thorns, and rainbows are always out of reach. You could dream the impossible dream all you wanted to, but it was always gone when you woke up. I was finding that out the hard way, each new reminder grinding my nose further and further into the dirt, and now all I really wanted was to grab something by the throat and squeeze— The ~ Jeff Lindsay,

698:The Other Fellow Whose luck is better far than ours? The other fellow's. Whose road seems always lined with flowers? The other fellow's. Who is the man who seems to get Most joy in life, with least regret, Who always seems to win his bet? The other fellow. Who fills the place we think we'd like? The other fellow. Whom does good fortune always strike? The other fellow. Whom do we envy, day by day? Who has more time than we to play? Who is it, when we mourn, seems gay? The other fellow. Who seems to miss the thorns we find? The other fellow. Who seems to leave us all behind? The other fellow. Who never seems to feel the woe, The anguish and the pain we know? Who gets the best seats at the show? The other fellow. And yet, my friend, who envies you? The other fellow. Who thinks he gathers only rue? The other fellow. Who sighs because he thinks that he Would infinitely happier he, If he could be like you or me? The other fellow. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

699:Sentimentally, he thought of Jess. Irrationally, he despaired of having her. But this was not a question of pursuit. Raj would laugh at him, and Nick would look askance. His fantasies were nurturing, not predatory. If he could have Jess, he would feed her. Laughable, antique, confusingly paternal, he longed to nourish her with clementines, and pears in season, fresh whole-wheat bread and butter, wild strawberries, comte cheese, fresh figs and oily Marcona almonds, tender yellow beets. He would sear red meat, if she would let him, and grill spring lamb. Cut the thorns off artichokes and dip the leaves in fresh aioli, poach her fish- thick Dover sole in wine and shallots- julienne potatoes, and roast a whole chicken with lemon slices under the skin. He would serve a salad of heirloom tomatoes and fresh mozzarella and just-picked basil. Serve her and watch her savor dinner, pour for her, and watch her drink. That would be enough for him. To find her plums in season, and perfect nectarines, velvet apricots, dark succulent duck. To bring her all these things and watch her eat. ~ Allegra Goodman,

700:These Little Ones 'What of the garden I gave?' God said to me; 'Hast thou been diligent to foster and save The life of flower and tree? How have the roses thriven, The lilies I have given, The pretty scented miracles that Spring And Summer come to bring? 'My garden is fair and dear,' I said to God; 'From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear. Green-trimmed its sod. The rose is red and bright, The lily a live delight; I have not lost a flower of all the flowers That blessed my hours.' 'What of the child I gave?' God said to me; 'The little, little one I died to save And gave in trust to thee? How have the flowers grown That in its soul were sown, The lovely living miracles of youth And hope and joy and truth?' 'The child's face is all white,' I said to God; 'It cries for cold and hunger in the night: Its little feet have trod The pavement muddy and cold. It has no flowers to hold, And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.' 'Thou fool!' God said. ~ Edith Nesbit,

701:This, too, is the Biblical description of work. In sin men lose their dominion over the creation which God gave them, and their relationship with this creation becomes toil. “Cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life; thorns and thistles it shall bring forth to you; and you shall eat the plants of the field. In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread till you return to the ground, for our of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (Gen. 3:17-19) Work represents the broken relationship between men and the rest of creation. Men, literally, work to death. The fallenness of work, the broken relationship between men and the rest of creation which work is, involves both the alienation of men from nature and from the rest of creation, including the principalities and powers. In work men lose their dominion over the principalities and are in bondage to the principalities. Instead of men ruling the great institutions – corporations, unions, and so on – men are ruled by the great institutions. ~ William Stringfellow,

702:The War There is a sound of thunder afar, Storm in the south that darkens the day, Storm of battle and thunder of war, Well, if it do not roll our way. Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! Be not deaf to the sound that warns! Be not gull'd by a despot's plea! Are figs of thistles or grapes of thorns? How should a despot set men free? Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! Let your Reforms for a moment go, Look to your butts and make good aims. Better a rotten borough or so, Than a rotten fleet or a city of flames! Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! Form, be ready to do or die! Form in freedom's name and the Queen's! True, that we have a faithful ally, But only the devil knows what he means! Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

703:This point is underlined in the well-known parable which Jotham told the men of Shechem: ‘Once upon a time the trees went out to anoint a king over them; and they said … to the vine, “Come and reign over us.” And the vine said to them: “Should I leave my wine, which cheers God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?”’ Similarly, the fig-tree declined because of its sweetness, and the olive because of its own good qualitites. Then a bramble, a barren plant full of thorns, accepted the sovereignty which they offered, though it possessed neither a special good quality of its own, nor those of the trees that were to be subject to it (cf. Judg. 9 : 7–15). Now in this parable the trees which sought a ruler were not cultivated but wild. The vine, the fig-tree and the olive refused to rule over the wild trees, preferring to bear their own fruits rather than to occupy a position of authority. Likewise, those who perceive in themselves some fruit of virtue and feel its benefit, refuse to assume leadership even when pressed by others, because they prefer this benefit to receiving honour from men. ~ Kallistos Ware,

704:Yet when God entered time and became a man, he who was boundless became bound. Imprisoned in flesh. Restricted by weary-prone muscles and eyelids. For more than three decades, his once limitless reach would be limited to the stretch of an arm, his speed checked to the pace of human feet. I wonder, was he ever tempted to regain his boundlessness? In the middle of a long trip, did he ever consider transporting himself to the next city? When the rain chilled his bones, was he tempted to change the weather? When the heat parched his lips, did he give thought to popping over to the Caribbean for some refreshment? If he ever entertained such thoughts, he never gave into them. Not once. Stop and think about this. Not once did Christ use his supernatural powers for personal comfort. With one word, he could've transformed the hard earth into a soft bed, but he didn't. With a wave of his hands, he could've boomeranged the spit of his accusers back into their faces, but he didn't. With an arch of his brow, he could've paralyzed the hand of the soldier as he braided the crown of thorns. But he didn't. ~ Max Lucado,

705:If you are a monster, stand up. If you are a monster, a trickster, a fiend, If you’ve built a steam-powered wishing machine If you have a secret, a dark past, a scheme, If you kidnap maidens or dabble in dreams Come stand by me. If you have been broken, stand up. If you have been broken, abandoned, alone If you have been starving, a creature of bone If you live in a tower, a dungeon, a throne If you weep for wanting, to be held, to be known, Come stand by me. If you are a savage, stand up. If you are a witch, a dark queen, a black knight, If you are a mummer, a pixie, a sprite, If you are a pirate, a tomcat, a wright, If you swear by the moon and you fight the hard fight, Come stand by me. If you are a devil, stand up. If you are a villain, a madman, a beast, If you are a strowler, a prowler, a priest, If you are a dragon come sit at our feast, For we all have stripes, and we all have horns, We all have scales, tails, manes, claws and thorns And here in the dark is where new worlds are born. Come stand by me. ~ Catherynne M Valente,

706:Christopher opened the door and with a crisp nod to the gawking man, drew Erienne out ahead of him. They were in the hall before she dared release her breath. “Lord Talbot will never forgive you for that,” she whispered worriedly. A low chuckle preceded his reply. “I don’t think I’ll miss his affection.” “You should be more careful,” she warned. “He’s a man of much influence.” “He’s a man of much arrogance, and I could not resist deflating him a bit.” Christopher looked down at her, and his eyes danced with green lights as he searched her face. “Do I actually detect some concern for me in your admonition, my sweet?” “When you’re so reckless, someone needs to try to get you to listen to reason,” she said impatiently. “I take heart that you care.” “There’s really no reason for you to feel conceit,” she responded dryly. “Ah, milady pricks me with her thorns and wounds me to the quick.” “Your hide is thicker than an oxen’s,” she scoffed. “And your skull just as dense.” “Don’t be mean, my love,” he coaxed. “Give me a warm smile to soothe this heart that beats only for you.” -Erienne & Christopher ~ Kathleen E Woodiwiss,

707:You do not seem to realize that beauty is a liability rather than an asset - that in view of the fact that spirit creates form we are justified in supposing that you must have brains. For you, a symbol of the unit, stiff and sharp, conscious of surpassing by dint of native superiority and liking for everything self-dependent, anything an ambitious civilization might produce: for you, unaided, to attempt through sheer reserve, to confuse presumptions resulting from observation, is idle. You cannot make us think you a delightful happen-so. But rose, if you are brilliant, it is not because your petals are the without-which-nothing of pre-eminence. Would you not, minus thorns, be a what-is-this, a mere perculiarity? They are not proof against a worm, the elements, or mildew; but what about the predatory hand? What is brilliance without co-ordination? Guarding the infinitesimal pieces of your mind, compelling audience to the remark that it is better to be forgotten than to be re- membered too violently, your thorns are the best part of you. ~ Marianne Moore,

708:Think quietly and with interest on these qualities and accept them fully in your conscious reasoning mind. Continue to plant these wonderful seeds (thoughts) in the garden of your mind, and you will reap a glorious harvest. Your subconscious mind may be likened to the soil which will grow all kinds of seeds, good or bad. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Every thought is, therefore, a cause, and every condition is an effect. For this reason, it is essential that you take charge of your thoughts so as to bring forth only desirable conditions. When your mind thinks correctly, when you understand the truth, when the thoughts deposited in your subconscious mind are constructive, harmonious, and peaceful, the magic working power of your subconscious will respond and bring about harmonious conditions, agreeable surroundings, and the best of everything. When you begin to control your thought processes, you can apply the powers of your subconscious to any problem or difficulty. In other words, you will actually be consciously co-operating with the infinite power and omnipotent law which governs all things. ~ Joseph Murphy,

709:Peanuts “Correct! The photo is important! I say, Listen, they have nothing When I get an idea. Then sit down and I make Peanuts – meaning that every time I open my mouth, one blank turn of events after the next bends cunningly toward me as I go twirling my baton toward the future – I personally, I impersonally, I personified and so on, lurching querulously across each brief tableau begat by scarecrows in this wilderness of thorns. You get the picture framed and mounted and all that patching starts to make a kind of sense.” A hush fell over the locker room is one way to describe it. Another way, my way, is a warm gap between bleachers “Like to earn a hundred dollars? ” took two loads of an astonishment. There were big deals just beyond me, zooming in then out then in again in a mad giddy rush while I let a guy rope down from the scaffolding I’d constructed as a kind of house. But it was him again, deserted. Terrifying soul of our surroundings, how innumerable your ripples, to which my glances corresponded, pocketing what they’d find! ~ Chris Edwards,

710:The Coronet When for the Thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound, My Saviours head have crown'd, I seek with Garlands to redress that Wrong: Through every Garden, every Mead, I gather flow'rs (my fruits are only flow'rs) Dismantling all the fragrant Towers That once adorn'd my Shepherdesses head. And now when I have summ'd up all my store, Thinking (so I my self deceive) So rich a Chaplet thence to weave As never yet the king of Glory wore: Alas I find the Serpent old That, twining in his speckled breast, About the flow'rs disguis'd does fold, With wreaths of Fame and Interest. Ah, foolish Man, that would'st debase with them, And mortal Glory, Heavens Diadem! But thou who only could'st the Serpent tame, Either his slipp'ry knots at once untie, And disintangle all his winding Snare: Or shatter too with him my curious frame: And let these wither, so that he may die, Though set with Skill and chosen out with Care. That they, while Thou on both their Spoils dost tread, May crown thy Feet, that could not crown thy Head. ~ Andrew Marvell,

711:Why Roses Crave Thorns" Petals detach from a wilting bud—a single stem plucked before fully blossomed. They descend in hesitant swirls, too soft and limp to shatter like teardrops. One by one they light to blanket a single shadow below. She is a rose, young and innocent, with beauty incomparable to shame all others. She has flowered enough to stop the observer in his tracks, awestruck. He is compelled to reach out and touch. The petals delight at a silken caress, her bud everything desirable but defenseless—without a sharp edge to make an admirer pause, to warn the intrusive hand. ‘Stay back! Stay back!’ His fingers curl around the stem to tug, and suddenly the rose craves a thorn. It is madness not to want her and yet madness to cut her down. Let the flower thrive and blush to someday flaunt layers of silken favors! But the world will not have it. A single stem is severed in a selfish moment of desire—a yearning to hold and possess. Alone and forgotten her petals cry, raining in hesitant swirls where they accumulate to blanket her shadow below. Dry, withered, craving the thorns. Beautiful no more. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

712:Therefore  i let us leave  j the elementary doctrine of Christ and go on to maturity, not laying again a foundation of repentance  k from dead works and of faith toward God, 2and of  l instruction about washings, [1]  m the laying on of hands,  n the resurrection of the dead, and  o eternal judgment. 3And this we will do  p if God permits. 4For it is impossible, in the case of those  q who have once been enlightened, who have tasted  r the heavenly gift, and  s have shared in the Holy Spirit, 5and  t have tasted the goodness of the word of God and the powers of the age to come, 6and  u then have fallen away, to restore them again to repentance, since  v they are crucifying once again the Son of God to their own harm and holding him up to contempt. 7For  w land that has drunk the rain that often falls on it, and produces a crop useful to those for whose sake it is cultivated, receives a blessing from God. 8But  x if it bears thorns and thistles, it is worthless and near to being cursed,  y and its end is to be burned. 9Though we speak in this way, yet in your case, beloved, we feel sure of better things—things that belong to salvation. 10For  z God is not unjust so ~ Anonymous,

713:Dandelions represent the easy way. You pick up a dandelion and it's so soft, and it's so easy and even fun sometimes to blow the seeds everywhere. And you don't even realize what you're doing. Nothing happens right then, except you get a pretty little show in the breeze. It's not until later, sometimes, a long time later, that you look out in your garden and realize what you did. It's easy, love, to pull back, to hide in yourself, to run and say you're just taking some time, to keep all of your emotions inside, maybe even to think you're protecting me from something. It would be easier still for me to let you do that. To watch you blow those dandelion seeds everywhere, and pretend it won't damage anything. To pretend we won't wake up one summer morning to discover we've allowed a huge patch of weeds to grow between us, opening up cracks in the foundation of our marriage. Thorns, on the other hand... they're not easy. They hurt. They make you want to give up on the whole plant sometimes. But if you don't give up, love, if you fight through it, allow yourself to be hurt - the result is beautiful and strong. And it will last forever if you care for it. ~ Breeana Puttroff,

714:Everything comes from everything and nothing escapes commonality. I am building a house already built, you are bearing a child already born. Everything comes from everything: a single cell out of another single cell; the cherry tree blossoms from the boughs; the hunter's aim from his arm; the rivers from tributaries from streams from falls from springs from wells; the Christ thorns out of the honey locust; a word from an ancient word, this book from many books; the tiny black bears out of their durable mothers tumbling from dark lairs; eightieth-generation wild crab abloom again and again and again; your hand out of your father's; firstborn out of firstborn out of firstborn out of; the weeping willows and the heart leaf, the Carolina, the silky, the upland, the sandbar willows; every tart berry; our work, which disappears; our mothers' whispers, which disappear; every Thoroughbred; every violet; every kindling twig, bone out of bone; also the heat lightborne, the pollen airborne, the rabbits soft and crickets all angles and the glossy snakes from their slithering, inexhaustible mothers, freshly terrible. When you die, you will contribute your bones like alms. More and more is the only law. ~ C E Morgan,

715:The First Night Before I opened you, Jiménez, it never occurred to me that day and night would continue to circle each other in the ring of death, but now you have me wondering if there will also be a sun and a moon and will the dead gather to watch them rise and set then repair, each soul alone, to some ghastly equivalent of a bed. Or will the first night be the only night, a darkness for which we have no other name? How feeble our vocabulary in the face of death, How impossible to write it down. This is where language will stop, the horse we have ridden all our lives rearing up at the edge of a dizzying cliff. The word that was in the beginning and the word that was made flesh— those and all the other words will cease. Even now, reading you on this trellised porch, how can I describe a sun that will shine after death? But it is enough to frighten me into paying more attention to the world's day-moon, to sunlight bright on water or fragmented in a grove of trees, and to look more closely here at these small leaves, these sentinel thorns, whose employment it is to guard the rose. ~ Billy Collins,

716:Before my last exhale, Before the curtain falls, Before the last flower wilts, I intend to live fully, I intend to love without inhibition, I intend to be. In this cruel world, In this era steeped in hatred and grudge, In this age filled with disasters, I want to be in the presence of those who need me, Whom I need, Who are worthy of reverence? So that I can discover, Be mesmerized, And understand anew, All that I am, All that I can be, All that I want to be. So that the days don’t pass me by in meaningless void, The hours become alive, And the moments gain significance. When I laugh, When I cry, When I am silent, I am journeying towards you, Towards myself, Towards the divine. For it is an unknown path, Full of thorns, And ebbs and flows. A path that upon taking, Upon which I have already stepped foot, There is no return, Until I have seen the blossoming of the flowers, Until I have heard the rivers roar, Until I have been awed by the beauty of life. Now death can find me, Now I can carry on with the journey, Now I can say that I have lived. ~ Margot Bickel,

717:Kind Sir: These Woods Kind Sir: This is an old game that we played when we were eight and ten. Sometimes on The Island, in down Maine, in late August, when the cold fog blew in off the ocean, the forest between Dingley Dell and grandfather's cottage grew white and strange. It was as if every pine tree were a brown pole we did not know; as if day had rearranged into night and bats flew in sun. It was a trick to turn around once and know you were lost; knowing the crow's horn was crying in the dark, knowing that supper would never come, that the coast's cry of doom from that far away bell buoy's bell said your nursemaid is gone . O Mademoiselle, the rowboat rocked over. Then you were dead. Turn around once, eyes tight, the thought in your head. Kind Sir: Lost and of your same kind I have turned around twice with my eyes sealed and the woods were white and my night mind saw such strange happenings, untold and unreal. And opening my eyes, I am afraid of course to look-this inward look that society scornsStill, I search these woods and find nothing worse than myself, caught between the grapes and the thorns. ~ Anne Sexton,

718:I’m a tattoo artist, I’ll probably always be a tattoo artist and I don’t know how that plays into your future or the future you have planned after school and frankly I don’t care. This is what I have to offer you Shaw and just like you let me be your first, I’m letting you be mine,” I covered her entire palm with a detailed drawing of a sacred heart, it matched the one I had inked on the center of my chest. It had flames dancing up the back, a crown of thorns on top of it, a spray of roses along the bottom and in the center I drew a scrolling banner with my name in the center. “Here’s my heart Shaw. You have it in your hands and I promise you’re the first and last person to ever touch it. You need to be careful with it because it’s far more fragile than I ever thought and if you try and give it back I’m not taking it. I don’t know enough about love to know for sure that’s what this between us is, but I know that for me it’s you and only you from here on out and I can only promise to be careful and not push you away again. Life without you in it is doable, but if I have a choice I want to do it with you by my side and I’m telling you I’m not running away from the work it takes to make that happen. Shaw I’m not scared of us anymore. ~ Jay Crownover,

719:To be in touch with wilderness is to have stepped past the proud cattle of the field and wandered far from the twinkles of the Inn's fire. To have sensed something sublime in the life/death/life movement of the seasons, to know that contained in you is the knowledge to pull the sword from the stone and to live well in fierce woods in deep winter. Wilderness is a form of sophistication, because it carries within it true knowledge of our place in the world. It doesn't exclude civilization but prowls through it, knowing when to attend to the needs of the committee and when to drink from a moonlit lake. It will wear a suit and tie when it has to, but refuses to trim its talons or whiskers. Its sensing nature is not afraid of emotion: the old stories are full of grief forests and triumphant returns, banquets and bridges of thorns. Myth tells us that the full gamut of feeling is to be experienced. Wilderness is the capacity to go into joy, sorrow, and anger fully and stay there for as long as needed, regardless of what anyone else thinks. Sometimes, as Lorca says, it means 'get down on all fours for twenty centuries and eat the grasses of the cemetaries.' Wilderness carries sobriety as well as exuberance, and has allowed loss to mark its face. ~ Martin Shaw,

720:Alas! what are you, after all, my written and painted thoughts! Not long ago you were so variegated, young and malicious, so full of thorns and secret spices, that you made me sneeze and laugh — and now? You have already doffed your novelty, and some of you, I fear, are ready to become truths, so immortal do they look, so pathetically honest, so tedious! And was it ever otherwise? What then do we write and paint, we mandarins with Chinese brush, we immortalizers of things which lend themselves to writing, what are we alone capable of painting? Alas, only that which is just about to fade and begins to lose its odour! Alas, only exhausted and departing storms and belated yellow sentiments! Alas, only birds strayed and fatigued by flight, which now let themselves be captured with the hand — with our hand! We immortalize what cannot live and fly much longer, things only which are exhausted and mellow! And it is only for your afternoon, you, my written and painted thoughts, for which alone I have colours, many colours, perhaps, many variegated softenings, and fifty yellows and browns and greens and reds; — but nobody will divine thereby how ye looked in your morning, you sudden sparks and marvels of my solitude, you, my old, beloved — evil thoughts! ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

721:Good Friday O, SAD and solemn holy day, O, bitterest of bitter hours! Behold He staggers on His way Beneath the cross that saps His powers. O, see, they goad Him with their thongs, And mock Him as He falters there, For us, for us He bears these wrongs And goes the crown of thorns to wear. No word of bitterness He speaks, No look of hatred mars His face, The scoffers spit upon His cheeks And taunt Him in the market place; And now upon the cross He 's nailed, 'I thirst,' He mutters, that is all; But still He is to be assailed, His lips must taste the cup of gall. Once more His lips are seen to move, O, holy sentence uttered there! What more His love could better prove Than these few words borne on the air: 'Father, forgive them,' thus He prayed, And doubt you that His love was true? Still patient, gentle, unafraid, 'Forgive, they know not what they do." For us the crown of thorns He wore With patience man has never known; For us the cruel cross He bore With meekness man has never shown. For us He lived, for us He died, O, sad and solemn holy day, Renouncing self and earthly pride That we might know the better way. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

722:When I heard the burble of a stream, I picked my way through a patch of bramble to get to it. Hayley was right behind me, fighting through the branches instead of ducking them. Sam got poked in the eye. When she cursed, Hayley jumped and slipped on a muddy patch. Corey ripped his shirt on thorns helping her up. All three complained, loudly and bitterly. “We need more water,” Daniel said. “Which means you need to get to it, because we can’t bring it back for you.” “Well, maybe if Hayley was more careful,” Sam said. “Not letting the branches fling back.” “Well, maybe if you weren’t walking right behind me,” Hayley said. “Why do we need water anyway? We drank before we set out.” “We need to drink from every stream I can find,” I said. “As I’ve said, dehydration is the biggest risk we face out here.” “Okay,” Corey said. “But could you find a path without mud and thorns?” “I’ll make sure the next one’s paved.” Daniel leaned toward me as we walked. “I bet if we bolted, we could lose them in ten seconds.” “Don’t tempt me,” I muttered. He grinned and put out his hand to help me over a muddy patch. I crossed, then called back a warning to the others. Daniel seconded the warning and pointed out the mud. Hayley still slid and fell. ~ Kelley Armstrong,

723:She had been wrong in thinking Christ had been called up against his will to fight in a war. He didn't look - in spite of the crown of thorns - like someone making a sacrifice. Or even like someone determined to "do his bit". He looked instead like Marjorie had looked telling Polly she'd joined the Nursing Service, like Mr Humphreys had looked filling buckets with water and sand to save Saint Paul's, like Miss Laburnum had looked that day she came to Townsend Brothers with the coats. He looked like Captain Faulknor must have looked, lashing the ships together. Like Ernest Shackleton, setting out in that tiny boat across icy seas. Like Colin helping Mr Dunworthy across the wreckage. He looked ... contented. As if he was where he wanted to be, doing what he wanted to do. Like Eileen had looked, telling Polly she'd decided to stay. Like Mike must have looked in Kent, composing engagement announcements and letters to the editor. Like I must have looked there in the rubble with Sir Godfrey, my hand pressed against his heart. Exalted. Happy. To do something for someone or something you loved - England or Shakespeare or a dog or the Hodbins or history - wasn't a sacrifice at all. Even if it cost you your freedom, your life, your youth. ~ Connie Willis,

724:The Love Of Christ Which Passeth Kowledge I bore with thee long weary days and nights, Through many pangs of heart, through many tears; I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights, For three and thirty years. Who else had dared for thee what I have dared? I plunged the depth most deep from bliss above; I not My flesh, I not My spirit spared: Give thou Me love for love. For thee I thirsted in the daily drouth, For thee I trembled in the nightly frost: Much sweeter thou than honey to My mouth: Why wilt thou still be lost? I bore thee on My shoulders and rejoiced: Men only marked upon My shoulders borne The branding cross; and shouted hungry-voiced, Or wagged their heads in scorn. Thee did nails grave upon My hands, thy name Did thorns for frontlets stamp between Mine eyes: I, Holy One, put on thy guilt and shame; I, God, Priest, Sacrifice. A thief upon My right hand and My left; Six hours alone, athirst, in misery: At length in death one smote My heart and cleft A hiding-place for thee. Nailed to the racking cross, than bed of down More dear, whereon to stretch Myself and sleep: So did I win a kingdom,—share my crown; A harvest,—come and reap. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

725:On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give substance, blazed a fire of thorns, that crackled 'like the laughter of the fool.' Nineteen persons were gathered here. Of these, five women, wearing gowns of various bright hues, sat in chairs along the wall; girls shy and not shy filled the window-bench; four men, including Charley Jake the hedge-carpenter, Elijah New the parish-clerk, and John Pitcher, a neighboring dairyman, the shepherd's father-in-law, lolled in the settle; a young man and maid, who were blushing over tentative pourparlers on a life companionship, sat beneath the corner-cupboard; and an elderly engaged man of fifty or upward moved restlessly about from spots where his betrothed was not to the spot where she was. Enjoyment was pretty general, and so much the more prevailed in being unhampered by conventional restrictions. Absolute confidence in each other's good opinion begat perfect ease, while the finishing stroke of manner, amounting to a truly princely serenity, was lent to the majority by the absence of any expression or trait denoting that they wished to get on in the world, enlarge their minds, or do any eclipsing thing whatever - which nowadays so generally nips the bloom and bonhomie of all except the two extremes of the social scale. ("The Three Strangers") ~ Thomas Hardy,

726:What did those people teach you?" he asked me one night, mystified. "What exactly do Catholics believe?" I'd been preparing my whole life for this question. "First of all, blood. BLOOD. Second of all, thorns. Third of all, put dirt on your forehead. Do it right now. Fourth of all, Martin Luther was a pig in a cloak. Fifth of all, Jesus is alive, but he's also dead, and he's also immortal, but he's also made of clouds, and his face is a picture of infinite peace, but he also always looks like one of those men in a headache commercial, because you'rec causing him so much suffering whenever you cuss. He is so gentle that sheep seem like demented murderers in his presence, but also rays of sunlight shoot out of his face so hard they can kill people. In fact, they do kill people, and one day they will kill you. He has a tattoo of a daisy on his lower back and he gets his hair permed every eight weeks. He's wearing a flowing white dress, but only because people didn't know about jeans back then. He's holding up two fingers because his dad won't let him have a gun. If he lived on earth, he would have a white truck, plastered with bumper stickers of Calvin peeing on a smaller Calvin who is not a Catholic." Jason was aghast. "Thorns?" he whispered. "But that's the most dangerous part of the rose. ~ Patricia Lockwood,

727:With Mercy For The Greedy for my friend Ruth, who urges me to make an appointment for the Sacrament of Confesson Concerning your letter in which you ask me to call a priest and in which you ask me to wear The Cross that you enclose; your own cross, your dog-bitten cross, no larger than a thumb, small and wooden, no thorns, this rose I pray to its shadow, that gray place where it lies on your letter… deep, deep. I detest my sins and I try to believe in The Cross. I touch its tender hips, its dark jawed face, its solid neck, its brown sleep. True. There is a beautiful Jesus. He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef. How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in! How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes! But I can't. Need is not quite belief. All morning long I have worn your cross, hung with package string around my throat. It tapped me lightly as a child's heart might, tapping secondhand, softly waiting to be born. Ruth, I cherish the letter you wrote. My friend, my friend, I was born doing reference work in sin, and born confessing it. This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star. 344 ~ Anne Sexton,

728:The Offering Of The New Law, The One Oblation Once Offered Once I thought to sit so high In the Palace of the sky; Now, I thank God for His Grace, If I may fill the lowest place. Once I thought to scale so soon Heights above the changing moon; Now, I thank God for delay— To-day, it yet is called to-day. While I stumble, halt and blind, Lo! He waiteth to be kind; Bless me soon, or bless me slow, Except He bless, I let not go. Once for earth I laid my plan, Once I leaned on strength of man, When my hope was swept aside, I stayed my broken heart on pride: Broken reed hath pierced my hand; Fell my house I built on sand; Roofless, wounded, maimed by sin, Fightings without and fears within: Yet, a tree, He feeds my root; Yet, a branch, He prunes for fruit; Yet, a sheep, these eves and morns, He seeks for me among the thorns. With Thine Image stamped of old, Find Thy coin more choice than gold; Known to Thee by name, recall To Thee Thy home-sick prodigal. Sacrifice and Offering None there is that I can bring, 386 None, save what is Thine alone: I bring Thee, Lord, but of Thine Own— Broken Body, Blood Outpoured, These I bring, my God, my Lord; Wine of Life, and Living Bread, With these for me Thy Board is spread. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

729:How the penises of Western men have leapt, for a century, to the sight of this singular point at the top of a lady's stocking, this transition from silk to bare skin and suspender! It's easy for non-fetishists to sneer about Pavlovian conditioning and let it go at that, but any underwear enthusiast worth his unwholesome giggle can tell you there is much more here - there is a cosmology: of nodes and cusps and points of osculation, mathematical kisses… singularities! Consider cathedral spires, holy minarets, the crunch of trainwheels over the points as you watch peeling away the track you didn't take… mountain peaks rising sharply to heaven, such as those to be noted at scenic Berchtesgaden… the edges of steel razors, always holding potent mystery… rose thorns that prick us by surprise… even, according to the Russian mathematician Friedmann, the infinitely dense point from which the present Universe expanded… In each case, the change from point to no-point carries a luminosity and enigma at which something in us must leap and sing, or withdraw in fright. Watching the A4 pointed at the sky - just before the last firing-switch closes - watching that singular point at the very top of the Rocket, where the fuze is… Do all these points imply, like the Rocket's, an annihilation? What is that, detonating in the sky above the cathedral? beneath the edge of the razor, under the rose? ~ Thomas Pynchon,

730:The Dead Beggar AN ELEGY. Addressed to a Lady, who was affected at seeing the Funeral of a nameless Pauper, buried at the expense of the Parish, in the Church-Yard at Brighthelmstone, in November 1792. SWELLS then thy feeling heart, and streams thine eye O'er the deserted being, poor and old, Whom cold, reluctant, parish charity Consigns to mingle with his kindred mould? Mourn'st thou, that here the time-worn sufferer ends Those evil days still threatening woes to come; Here, where the friendless feel no want of friends, Where even the houseless wanderer finds a home! What though no kindred crowd in sable forth, And sigh, or seem to sigh, around his bier; Though o'er his coffin with the humid earth No children drop the unavailing tear? Rather rejoice that here his sorrows cease, Whom sickness, age, and poverty oppress'd; Where death, the leveller, restores to peace The wretch who living knew not where to rest. Rejoice, that though an outcast spurn'd by fate, Through penury's rugged path his race he ran; In earth's cold bosom, equall'd with the great, Death vindicates the insulted rights of man. Rejoice, that though severe his earthly doom, And rude, and sown with thorns the way he trod, Now, (where unfeeling fortune cannot come) He rests upon the mercies of his God. ~ Charlotte Smith,

731:The testimony is followed by another montage of Team Impact feats of strength. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” an amped up announcer voice a la Monster Truck Rally proclaims, “We are Team Impaaaaact. Standing on faith tonight let’s give it up for the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the one, the only, the Risen Warrioooooor!” Are they talking about Jesus? Is he a cage fighter or the Lamb of God? If ever there was a cross-denying tribute to a theology of glory, it would be Team Impact. As is the case with the rest of TBN, the scandal of Jesus’ birth, life, teachings, death, and resurrection are ignored entirely in favor of a Jesus-as-Rambo theology; here the Lord just kicks ass and takes names, much like the freakishly muscular Team Impact guys. Taking one’s Christology from a couple of chapters of Revelation (ignoring the central Christ image, that of the Lamb who was slain) rather than the gospels is baffling to me. I recently saw an “inspirational” self-mocking emerging church poster. The word “incarnational” rested below an image of a heavily tattooed guy wearing a crown of thorns made of barbed wire. The caption read “What would Jesus do? I’m pretty sure he’d do stuff I think is cool.” We all wish to make Christ in our own image because the truth of a God who dies is too much. We’ll believe anything but that, and if that anything happens to bring us power and victory and glory then all the better. ~ Nadia Bolz Weber,

732:Nobody Believes Nobody believes in lovenot even me. Love is the thing you wait to end. Love is the thing that will not, cannot work. Love is the thing they warn you ofthe dire parents, the friends with their dead marriages, their crushed hopes. Nothing crushes hope but the will to make the heart like rock. That will is strong. The rock-heart stands when the love songs crumble, their yellowing sheet music kept in a drawer, their sweet hugs & tugs forgotten, like the merest air of an old New England spring. Spring comes again & again, & the rock-hearts 142 feel the sap rising thinking it is sex, thinking the glands alone cause this tumult to the innards, this hidden spring, this secret river which is hope. Let them put it down to sex! Let them say we worship Dionysus, Bacchus, Pan, but not the proper gods. Let them have the proper godsJahweh with his heart like rock, Christ with his blood & thorns, Mammon with his stock certificates, his rates, his rates, his bull markets, & his late rallies. We are rallying alone. We spit our love into the wind. Nobody can bear to watch our love. Except the muse who smiles & sends 143 these poems. ~ Erica Jong,

733:It was a dead hole, smelling of synthetic leather and disinfectant, both of which odors seemed to emanate from the torn scratched material of the seats that lined the three walls. It smelled of the tobacco ashes which had flooded the two standing metal ashtrays. On the chromium lip of one, a cigar butt gleamed wetly like a chewed piece of beef. There was the smell of peanut shells and of the waxy candy wrappers that littered the floor, the smell of old newspapers, dry, inky, smothering and faintly like a urinal, the smell of sweat from armpits and groins and backs and faces, pouring out and drying up in the lifeless air, the smell of clothes—cleaning fluids imbedded in fabric and blooming horribly in the warm sweetish air, picking at the nostrils like thorns—all the exudations of the human flesh, a bouquet of animal being, flowing out, drying up, but leaving a peculiar and ineradicable odor of despair in the room as though chemistry was transformed into spirit, an ascension of a kind, …Light issuing from spotlights in the ceiling was sour and blinding like a sick breath. There was in that room an underlying confusion in the function of the senses. Smell became color, color became smell. Mute started at mute so intently they might have been listening with their eyes, and hearing grew preternaturally acute, yet waited only for the familiar syllables of surnames. Taste died, mouth opened in the negative drowsiness of waiting. ~ Paula Fox,

734:The Old Witch In The Copse I am a Witch, and a kind old Witch, There's many a one knows that-Alone I live in my little dark house With Pillycock, my cat. A girl came running through the night, When all the winds blew free:-"O mother, change a young man's heart That will not look on me. O mother, brew a magic mead To stir his heart so cold." "Just as you will, my dear," said I; "And I thank you for your gold." So here am I in the wattled copse Where all the twigs are brown, To find what I need to brew my mead As the dark of night comes down. Primroses in my old hands, Sweet to smell and young, And violets blue that spring in the grass Wherever the larks have sung. With celandines as heavenly crowns Yellowy-gold and bright; All of these, O all of these, Shall bring her Love's delight. But orchids growing snakey green Speckled dark with blood, And fallen leaves that curled and shrank And rotted in the mud, With blistering nettles burning harsh And blinding thorns above; All of these, O all of these Shall bring the pains of Love. Shall bring the pains of Love, my Puss, That cease not night or day, The bitter rage, nought can assuage Till it bleeds the heart away. Pillycock mine, my hands are full My pot is on the fire. Purr, my pet, this fool shall get 17 Her fool's desire. ~ Barry Cornwall,

735:A Dead Rose O Rose! who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,--Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee. The breeze that used to blow thee Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away An odour up the lane to last all day,--If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee. The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,--If shining now,---with not a hue would light thee. The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grow incarnadined, because It lay upon thee where the crimson was,--If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee. The fly that lit upon thee, To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet, Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,--If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee. The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,--If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee. The heart doth recognise thee, Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,--Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee. Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!--Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee! 16 ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

736:Verses, On The Death Of The Same Lady LIKE a poor ghost the night I seek; ts hollow winds repeat my sighs; The cold dews mingle on my cheek With tears that wander from mine eyes. The thorns that still my couch molest, Have robb'd these heavy eyes of sleep; But though deprived of tranquil rest, I here at last am free to weep. Twelve times the moon, that rises red O'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine, Has fill'd her orb, since low was laid My Harriet! that sweet form of thine! While each sad month, as slow it pass'd, Brought some new sorrow to deplore; Some grief more poignant than the last, But thou canst calm those griefs no more. No more thy friendship soothes to rest This wearied spirit tempest-toss'd; The cares that weigh upon my breast Are doubly felt since thou art lost. Bright visions of ideal grace That the young poet's dreams inflame, Were not more lovely than thy face; Were not more perfect than thy frame. Wit, that no sufferings could impair, Was thine, and thine those mental powers Of force to chase the fiends that tear From Fancy's hands her budding flowers. O'er what, my angel friend, thou wert, Dejected Memory loves to mourn; Regretting still that tender heart, Now withering in a distant urn. 216 But ere that wood of shadowy pine Twelve times shall yon full orb behold, This sickening heart, that bleeds for thine, My Harriet!—may like thine be cold! ~ Charlotte Smith,

737:Consider, finally, what it meant to Him to do this for us. “I go,” He says. Where is He going? He is going to the Garden of Gethsemane to sweat drops of blood. Where is He going? He is going to be arrested, to be tried in court, to be mocked and jeered and laughed at. He is going to be spat upon, to have His holy body scourged. He is going to have a crown of thorns placed upon His head. They will take Him and drive cruel nails into His blessed hands and feet. He is going to be nailed to a tree. Can you picture it happening to you, with nails being hammered in through hands and feet? That is what He is going to. And, too, He is going to endure the mockery and the spitting and the jeering of the cruel mob; they did not know who He was or what He was doing. He is going to die and to be laid in a grace, He who is the eternal Son of God through whom the world was made and by whom all things consist. He is going deliberately to all that because that is the only way whereby the door and the gate of heaven can be opened for us. “I go to prepare a place in heaven with God, a mansion for you. Beloved friend, have you realised that the Lord Jesus Christ has done all that for you? If you see it, if you believe it, you will agree with Paul when he says that you are not your own, you “are bought with a price,” therefore you must give yourself and your life to Him (1 Cor. 6:20). If you believe Him, you can know for certain that He has prepared a place for you and will come again and received you unto Himself so that where He is, you shall be also. ~ D Martyn Lloyd Jones,

738:Verses Iv On the Death of the same Lady, written in Sept. 1794. LIKE a poor ghost the night I seek; Its hollow winds repeat my sighs; The cold dews mingle on my cheek With tears that wander from mine eyes. The thorns that still my couch molest, Have robb'd these heavy eyes of sleep; But though deprived of tranquil rest, I here at last am free to weep. Twelve times the moon, that rises red O'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine, Has fill'd her orb, since low was laid My Harriet! that sweet form of thine! While each sad month, as slow it pass'd, Brought some new sorrow to deplore; Some grief more poignant than the last, But thou canst calm those griefs no more. No more thy friendship soothes to rest This wearied spirit tempest-toss'd; The cares that weigh upon my breast Are doubly felt since thou art lost. Bright visions of ideal grace That the young poet's dreams inflame, Were not more lovely than thy face; Were not more perfect than thy frame. Wit, that no sufferings could impair, Was thine, and thine those mental powers Of force to chase the fiends that tear From Fancy's hands her budding flowers. O'er what, my angel friend, thou wert, Dejected Memory loves to mourn; Regretting still that tender heart, Now withering in a distant urn. But ere that wood of shadowy pine Twelve times shall yon full orb behold, This sickening heart, that bleeds for thine, My Harriet!--may like thine be cold! 214 ~ Charlotte Smith,

739:/Farsi The nightingale raises his head, drugged with passion, Pouring the oil of earthly love in such a fashion That the other birds shaded with his song, grow mute. The leaping mysteries of his melodies are acute. 'I know the secrets of Love, I am their piper,' He sings, 'I seek a David with broken heart to decipher Their plaintive barbs, I inspire the yearning flute, The daemon of the plucked conversation of the lute. The roses are dissolved into fragrance by my song, Hearts are torn with its sobbing tone, broken along The fault lines of longing filled with desire's wrong. My music is like the sky's black ocean, I steal The listener's reason, the world becomes the seal Of dreams for chosen lovers, where only the rose Is certain. I cannot go further, I am lame, and expose My anchored soul to the divine Way. My love for the rose is sufficient, I shall stay In the vicinity of its petalled image, I need No more, it blooms for me the rose, my seed. The hoopoe replies: 'You love the rose without thought. Nightingale, your foolish song is caught By the rose's thorns, it is a passing thing. Velvet petal, perfume's repose bring You pleasure, yes, but sorrow too For the rose's beauty is shallow: few Escape winter's frost. To seek the Way Release yourself from this love that lasts a day. The bud nurtures its own demise as day nurtures night. Groom yourself, pluck the deadly rose from your sight. [1490.jpg] -- from The Conference of the Birds: The Selected Sufi Poetry of Farid ud-Din Attar, Translated by Raficq Abdulla ~ Farid ud-Din Attar, The Nightingale ,

740:We cleave our way through the mountains until the interstate dips into a wide basin brimming with blue sky, broken by dusty roads and rocky saddles strung out along the southern horizon. This is our first real glimpse of the famous big-sky country to come, and I couldn't care less. For all its grandeur, the landscape does not move me. And why should it? The sky may be big, it may be blue and limitless and full of promise, but it's also really far away. Really, it's just an illusion. I've been wasting my time. We've all been wasting our time. What good is all this grandeur if it's impermanent, what good all of this promise if it's only fleeting? Who wants to live in a world where suffering is the only thing that lasts, a place where every single thing that ever meant the world to you can be stripped away in an instant? And it will be stripped away, so don't fool yourself. If you're lucky, your life will erode slowly with the ruinous effects of time or recede like the glaciers that carved this land, and you will be left alone to sift through the detritus. If you are unlucky, your world will be snatched out from beneath you like a rug, and you'll be left with nowhere to stand and nothing to stand on. Either way, you're screwed. So why bother? Why grunt and sweat and weep your way through the myriad obstacles, why love, dream, care, when you're only inviting disaster? I'm done answering the call of whippoorwills, the call of smiling faces and fireplaces and cozy rooms. You won't find me building any more nests among the rose blooms. Too many thorns. ~ Jonathan Evison,

741:The Picture Of Little T. C. In A Prospect Of Flowers SEE with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names; But only with the roses plays, And them does tell What colour best becomes them, and what smell. Who can foretell for what high cause This darling of the gods was born? Yet this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke and ensigns torn. Happy who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man! O then let me in time compound And parley with those conquering eyes, Ere they have tried their force to wound; Ere with their glancing wheels they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise: Let me be laid, Where I may see the glories from some shade. Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the Spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair, And roses of their thorns disarm; But most procure That violets may a longer age endure. But O, young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; 162 Lest Flora, angry at thy crime To kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make th' example yours; And ere we see, Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee. ~ Andrew Marvell,

742:Want to know the coolest thing about the coming? Not that the One who played marbles with the stars gave it up to play marbles with marbles. Or that the One who hung the galaxies gave it up to hang doorjambs to the displeasure of a cranky client who wanted everything yesterday but couldn't pay until tomorrow. Not that he, in an instant, went from needing nothing to needing air, food, a tub of hot water and salts for his tired feet, and, more than anything, needing somebody - anybody - who was more concerned about where he would spend eternity rather than where he would spend Friday's paycheck. Or that he resisted the urge to fry the two=bit, self-appointed hall monitors of holiness who dared suggest that he was doing the work of the devil. Not that he kept his cool while the dozen best friends he ever had felt the heat and got out of the kitchen. Or that he gave no command to the angels who begged, "Just give us the nod, Lord. One word and these demons will be deviled eggs." Not that he refused to defend himself when blamed for every sin of every slut and sailor since Adam. Or that he stood silent as a million guilty verdicts echoed in the tribunal of heaven and the giver of light was left in the chill of a sinner's night. Not even that after three days in a dark hole he stepped into the Easter sunrise with a smile and a swagger and a question for lowly Lucifer - "Is that your best punch?" That was cool, incredibly cool. But want to know the coolest thing about the One who gave up the crown of heaven for a crown of thorns? He did it for you. Just for you. ~ Max Lucado,

743:La Gitana Your hair was full of roses in the dewfall as we danced, The sorceress enchanting and the paladin entranced, In the starlight as we wove us in a web of silk and steel Immemorial as the marble in the halls of Boabdil, In the pleasuance of the roses with the fountains and the yews Where the snowy Sierra soothed us with the breezes and the dews! In the starlight as we trembled from a laugh to a caress, And the God came warm upon us in our pagan allegresse. Was the Baile de la Bona too seductive? Did you feel Through the silence and the softness all the tension of the steel? For your hair was full of roses, and my flesh was full of thorns, And the midnight came upon us worth a million crazy morns. Ah! my Gipsy, my Gitana, my Saliya! were you fain For the dance to turn to earnest? - O the sunny land of Spain! My Gitana, my Saliya! more delicious than a dove! With your hair aflame with roses and your lips alight with love! Shall I see you, shall I kiss you once again? I wander far From the sunny land of summer to the icy Polar Star. I shall find you, I shall have you! I am coming back again From the filth and fog to seek you in the sunny land of Spain. I shall find you, my Gitana, my Saliya! as of old With your hair aflame with roses and your body gay with gold. I shall find you, I shall have you, in the summer and the south With our passion in your body and our love upon your mouth With our wonder and our worship be the world aflame anew! My Gitana, my Saliya! I am coming back to you! ~ Aleister Crowley,

744:THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST “Now when He rose early on the first day of the week, He appeared first to Mary Magdalene, out of whom He had cast seven demons” (Mark 16:9). I would never have orchestrated the Resurrection the way the Lord chose to do it. After escaping the tomb I would have appeared to Herod or Pilate and gloated about how impotent were their soldiers, seal, and stone to prevent me from rising. I would have dared Herod to fetch the purple robe and crown of thorns if he had the audacity to mock me again. Or at least I would have appeared to the high priest and leaders who condemned me and made them squirm and shake in their sandals. I would have watched the blood drain from their faces as they pondered the terrible truth that they had condemned and executed their long-awaited Messiah. If I were producing the Resurrection, I would at least have Jesus initially appear to the disciples or perhaps to His mother, Mary. But Jesus chose to pass by all these logical options; -185- He first revealed Himself to a social outcast. Jesus deliberately waited until Peter, John, and even His own mother had left the garden area to bestow on a formerly demon-possessed prostitute, saved by grace, the highest honor ever to be granted any mortal. Why? Why is it that the first words spoken by Jesus after His resurrection were to Mary, and yet this is the last time she appears in the Sacred Record? To highlight and underscore the truth that He came to seek and save the lost. To remind us that if He can transform, save, and commission a meek and weak girl named Mary—well, then, there is hope for each one of us. ~ Doug Batchelor,

745:THE days of absence and the bitter nights Of separation, all are at an end! Where is the influence of the star that blights My hope? The omen answers: At an end! Autumn's abundance, creeping Autumn's mirth, Are ended and forgot when o'er the earth The wind of Spring with soft warm feet doth wend. The Day of Hope, hid beneath Sorrow's veil, Has shown its face--ah, cry that all may hear: Come forth! the powers of night no more prevail! Praise be to God, now that the rose is near With long-desired and flaming coronet, The cruel stinging thorns all men forget, The wind of Winter ends its proud career. The long confusion of the nights that were, Anguish that dwelt within my heart, is o'er; 'Neath the protection of my lady's hair Grief nor disquiet come to me no more. What though her curls wrought all my misery, My lady's gracious face can comfort me, And at the end give what I sorrow for. Light-hearted to the tavern let me go, Where laughs the pipe, the merry cymbals kiss; Under the history of all my woe, My mistress sets her hand and writes: Finis. Oh, linger not, nor trust the inconstant days That promised: Where thou art thy lady stays-- The tale of separation ends with this! Joy's certain path, oh Saki, thou hast shown-- Long may thy cup be full, thy days be fair! Trouble and sickness from my breast have flown, Order and health thy wisdom marshals there. Not one that numbered Hafiz' name among The great-unnumbered were his tears, unsung; Praise him that sets an end to endless care! ~ Hafiz, The Day Of Hope ,

746:Lifting his head, Quincel de Morhban looked at me with something like awe. “It’s true,” he whispered. “What they say … Kushiel’s Dart. It’s all true.” “Yes, my lord,” I murmured; if he’d told me the moon was locked in his stables, I’d have said the same, at that moment. De Morhban released me, turning away to pluck a great silvery rose, mindful of its thorns. “You see this?” he asked, placing it in my hand and folding my fingers about the stem. “It exists nowhere else. My Namarrese-gardener bred it. Naamah’s Star, he calls it.” His hand was still around mine; he closed it, tightening my clutch on the stem. Thorns pierced my skin and I gasped, my bones turning to water. The silvery rose blossomed between us, fragrant in the torchlit night air, while blood ran, drop by slow drop, from my fist. De Morhban’s gaze held me pinioned, his body close, rigid phallus pressed against my belly. He released my hand and I sank to my knees, divining his desire, unfastening his breeches, the rose falling forgotten as I took him in my hand, his hard-veined and throbbing phallus, slick with my own warm blood, and then into my mouth. All around us his unlikely garden opened onto the night as I performed the languisement until he drew away at the end, spending himself on me, in the garden, drops of milky fluid lying on my skin, on the dark leaves and silken petals, pearlescent and salty. He groaned with pleasure, then gazed down at me, freeing my hair from the caul with a harsh twist, so that it cascaded about my shoulders and down my back. “Dinner,” he said, catching his breath. “And then I will show you my pleasure-chamber, little anguissette. ~ Jacqueline Carey,

747:Life's Progress How gayly is at first begun Our Life's uncertain Race! Whilst yet that sprightly Morning Sun, With which we just set out to run Enlightens all the Place. How smiling the World's Prospect lies How tempting to go through ! Not Canaan to the Prophet's Eyes, From Pisgah with a sweet Surprize, Did more inviting shew. How promising's the Book of Fate, Till thoroughly understood! Whilst partial Hopes such Lots create, As may the youthful Fancy treat With all that's Great and Good. How soft the first Ideas prove, Which wander through our Minds! How full the Joys, how free the Love, Which do's that early Season move; As Flow'rs the Western Winds! Our Sighs are then but Vernal Air; But April–drops our Tears, Which swiftly passing, all grows Fair, Whilst Beauty compensates our Care, And Youth each Vapour clears. But oh! too soon, alas, we climb; Scarce feeling we ascend The gently rising Hill of Time, From whence with Grief we see that Prime, And all its Sweetness end. The Die now cast, our Station known, Fond Expectation past; The Thorns, which former Days had sown, 88 To Crops of late Repentance grown, Thro' which we toil at last. Whilst ev'ry Care's a driving Harm, That helps to bear us down; Which faded Smiles no more can charm, But ev'ry Tear's a Winter-Storm, And ev'ry Look's a Frown. Till with succeeding Ills opprest, For Joys we hop'd to find; By Age too, rumpl'd and undrest, We gladly sinking down to rest, Leave following Crouds behind. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

748:It had only two points of egress, the door to the hallway from which I’d just entered, and against which I’d been pinned-and now leaned against for support-and the other to the stable yard where a man dressed all in black leather had shoved John’s dog, and where I was assuming John kept his horse, Alastor, another creature from the Underworld who hated my guts. He was going to have to get in line, though. The boy who’d pulled Typhon off me was standing a few feet away, next to the wooden plank table that ran down the center of the room, staring at me with a look that suggested he disliked me even more than the dog had. It was difficult not to notice the size of his bare biceps-not as large as John’s, but still impressive-since he’d folded his arms across his chest, and this had caused the muscles to bulge. The fact that they were circled in vicious-looking rings of black tattooed thorns did even more to draw attention to them. It was hard to figure out if that was why he was so much more noticeable than anyone else in the room, or if it was because he was what my friend Kayla would have called smokin’ hot, despite a jagged scar that ran down one side of his forehead, through a dark brow, and halfway to the center of his left jaw. Whoever had wielded that knife had thankfully-for him-spared his dark eye. Not so thankfully for me, however, since he was able to use both eyes to give me a deathlike stare. “Um,” I said, finally feeling the blood flow returning to my limbs. “You might want to think about getting that dog neutered.” The boy with the thorn tattoos sneered. “I’m guessing she’ll be wanting to get us all neutered,” he said. ~ Meg Cabot,

749:March 31 MORNING “With His stripes we are healed.” — Isaiah 53:5 PILATE delivered our Lord to the lictors to be scourged. The Roman scourge was a most dreadful instrument of torture. It was made of the sinews of oxen, and sharp bones were inter-twisted every here and there among the sinews; so that every time the lash came down these pieces of bone inflicted fearful laceration, and tore off the flesh from the bone. The Saviour was, no doubt, bound to the column, and thus beaten. He had been beaten before; but this of the Roman lictors was probably the most severe of His flagellations. My soul, stand here and weep over His poor stricken body. Believer in Jesus, can you gaze upon Him without tears, as He stands before you the mirror of agonizing love? He is at once fair as the lily for innocence, and red as the rose with the crimson of His own blood. As we feel the sure and blessed healing which His stripes have wrought in us, does not our heart melt at once with love and grief? If ever we have loved our Lord Jesus, surely we must feel that affection glowing now within our bosoms. “See how the patient Jesus stands, Insulted in His lowest case! Sinners have bound the Almighty’s hands, And spit in their Creator’s face.” “With thorns His temples gor’d and gash’d Send streams of blood from every part; His back’s with knotted scourges lash’d. But sharper scourges tear His heart.” We would fain go to our chambers and weep; but since our business calls us away, we will first pray our Beloved to print the image of His bleeding self upon the tablets of our hearts all the day, and at nightfall we will return to commune with Him, and sorrow that our sin should have cost Him so dear. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

750:Imagine what it's like to be (untouchable) Better not take a chance on me (untouchable) I'm the bad boy your mama told you about I'm dangerous, without a doubt Even coming off a ten-year drought Untouchable I'm the rose with hidden thorns (untouchable) Don't tell me that you haven't been warned (untouchable) I'm pretty poison under the skin, The bite of the apple that's a mortal sin In a game of love you'll never win Untouchable My reputation's fairly earned (untouchable) If you play with fire, you will get burned (untouchable) Stay out of the kitchen if you can't take the heat, My kisses are deadly as they are sweet, I'm a runaway bus on a dead-end street Untouchable Fools rush in, that's what they say(untouchable) But angels fall, too, most every day (untouchable) I'm the snake in the garden, the siren on the reef I have the face of a saint and the heart of a thief I'll promise you love! And bring you nothing but grief Untouchable Hearing Jonah sing like this was like watching him slice himself open and show off his insides. Why would he do that? Why would be write such a song? And then Emma answered her own question. Because good music always tells the truth, no matter how much it hurts. Emma couldn't be the only one who felt the bite of the blade, but everyone else seemed to take it in stride. Did they know? Did they all know about Jonah? Of course they did. They were there when it happened. They'd allow Jonah to keep the secrets that were most important to him. She knew she shouldn't resent that, but she still did. They must have known she was falling for him. They must have. ~ Cinda Williams Chima,

751:Try these," she suggested. She held out a pair of simple long gauntlets that were almost as fine as gloves, chain underneath and plate on top. Aurora Rose carefully took off the ones she wore and slipped the others on. They fit perfectly. "This is a bit more your style," the blue one said, approaching her with a breastplate that was almost as big as she was. It was curved femininely to fit Aurora Rose's body, but not ridiculously so. A staid design of roses and thorns was inlaid along the sides. It was sturdy, and 'heavy.' The princess had to readjust the way she stood to support it while everyone helped buckle it on the back. "And for the top..." the red one said, looking around. "Let 'her' choose," the green one suggested gently. Aurora Rose walked down the aisle slowly, getting used to the weight of the armor. She passed each of the women and then Phillip- dashing in his shining cuirass and silver-white greaves, like a soldier from ancient Rome. Her eyes swept over everything, everywhere, pausing nowhere. Golden helms, intricate onyx headpieces, spiked and dangerous-looking crowns, plated metal turbans. Finally, she saw what she wanted. She strode forward and lifted a helmet- one she 'knew' would fit- off the top shelf. A point came down the middle of the forehead to protect her nose- and was also vaguely reminiscent of Maleficent's headpiece. But instead of horns, silver wings swept back over the ears. With slow, sure movements she put it on. It 'did' fit. Perfectly. She turned around to show the others. Phillip sucked in his breath. "You look 'magnificent,' Rose. Like- like an ancient goddess of war." "Like victory," the green one said softly. ~ Liz Braswell,

752:No, Dan.” “And you want me to go.” I looked into his eyes. “No. I don’t.” He moved closer, encouraged, and put his hand on my shoulder. “Then what do you want, Elle?” “I want you not to have to settle,” I told him. “Is that what you think I’m doing?” “I know that’s what you’ll be doing. Because if you want more from me, you’re not going to get it.” He said nothing for a long time. “When I readThe Little Prince, I thought you must be the rose. You with your four thorns, convincing me you’re able to defend yourself. But now I know you hate roses. So you must be the fox instead. So maybe what you really want is for me to tame you.” From a lot of men, that speech would have made me laugh, or roll my eyes. Then again, a lot of men wouldn’t have read Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s classic story ofThe Little Prince, or bothered to try and understand it. I reached for his hand and held it between both of mine. “The fox tells the Little Prince he is a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. Just like the flower was like a hundred thousand other flowers.” Dan tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with the hand I wasn’t holding. “But the fox asked the prince to tame him. To make it so they’d need each other and be unique to each other. And he did it.” “And then the prince went away, Dan, and left the fox bereft.” I looked down at my hands, holding his. “Would you be sad if I left you?” He asked me, and at first I wasn’t sure how I would reply. At last the answer came on breath as tremulous as a breeze wafting curtains from an open window. “Yes. I would.” He squeezed my hand. “Then I won’t. ~ Megan Hart,

753:Fashions Fashion on fashion on fashion, (With only the truth growing old!) And here's the new purple of passion, (And love waiting out in the cold) Who'll buy? They are crying new lamps for Aladdin, New worlds for the old and the true; And no one remembers the story _The magic was not in the new._ They are crying a new rose for Eden, A rose of green glass. I suppose The only thing wrong with their rose is The fact that it isn't a rose. Who'll buy? And here is a song without metre; And, here again, nothing is wrong; (For nothing on earth could be neater) Except that--it isn't a song. Well. Walk on your hands. It's the latest! And feet are Victorian now; And even our best and our greatest Before that dread epithet bow. Who'll buy? The furniture goes for a song, now. The sixties had horrible taste. But the trouble is this--they've included Some better things, too, in their haste. Were they wrapped in the antimacassars, Or sunk in a sofa of plush? Did an Angelican bishop forget them, And leave them behind in the crush? Who'll buy? 37 Here's a turnex. It's going quite cheaply. (It lived with stuffed birds in the hall! And, of course, to a mind that thinks deeply That settles it, once and for all.) Here's _item_, a ring (very plain, sirs!), And _item_, a God (but He's dead!); They say we shall need Him again, sirs, So--_item_, a cross for His head. Who'll buy? Yes, you'll need it again, though He's dead, sirs. It is only the fashions that fly. So here are the thorns for His head, sirs. They'll keep till you need 'em. Who'll buy? ~ Alfred Noyes,

754:I have questions," she said. "Ask away." Poppy decided to be blunt. "Are you dangerous? Everyone says you are." "To you? No." "To others?" Harry shrugged innocently. "I'm a hotelier. How dangerous could I be?" Poppy gave him a dubious glance, not at all deceived. "I may be gullible, Harry, but I'm not brainless. You know the rumors... you're well aware of your reputation. Are you as unscrupulous as you're made out to be?" Harry was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on a distant cluster of blossoms. The sun threw its light into the filter of branches, scattering leaf shadows over the pair in the arbor. Eventually he lifted his head and looked at her directly, his eyes greener than the sun struck rose leaves. "I'm not a gentleman," he said. "Not by birth, and not by character. Very few men can afford to be honorable while trying to make a success of themselves. I don't lie, but I rarely tell everything I know. I'm not a religious man, nor a spiritual one. I act in my own interests, and I make no secret of it. However, I always keep my side of a bargain, I don't cheat, and I pay my debts." Pausing, Harry fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a penknife, and reached up to cut a rose in full bloom. After neatly severing the stem, he occupied himself with stripping the thorns with the sharp little blade. "I would never use physical force against a woman, or anyone weaker than myself. I don't smoke, take snuff, or chew tobacco. I always hold my liquor. I don't sleep well. And I can make a clock from scratch." Removing the last thorn, he handed the rose to her, and slipped the knife back into his pocket. Poppy concentrated on the satiny pink rose, running her fingers along the top edges of the petals. ~ Lisa Kleypas,

755:If a negative mind comes to a rose, to a garden, many roses may be there, but he will count only the thorns. The first thing for the negative mind is the thorns; that is significant. Flowers are just illusory; only thorns are real. He will count, and, of course, for each flower a thousand thorns exist. And once he has counted a thousand thorns he cannot believe in one flower. He will say this one flower is just illusory. How can such a beautiful flower exist with such ugly thorns, violent thorns? It is impossible, it is unbelievable. And even if it exists, it means nothing now. One thousand thorns have been counted, and the flower disappears. A positive mind will start with the rose, with the flower. And once you are in a communion with the rose, once you know the beauty, the life, the unearthly flowering, thorns disappear. And one who has known the rose in its beauty, in its highest possibility, one who has looked deep into it, for him now even thorns will not look like thorns. The eyes filled with the rose are different now. Now the thorns will look just like a protection for this flower. They will not be enemies; they will look just like part of the happening of flowers. Now this mind will know that this flower happens and these thorns are needed, they protect. Because of these thorns this flower could happen. This positive mind will feel grateful even to thorns. And if this approach deepens, a moment comes when thorns become flowers. With the first approach the flower disappears – or the flower even becomes a thorn. Only with a positive mind can you get the state of a non-tense mind. With a negative mind you will remain tense, with so many miseries all around. Such a negative, inventive mind goes on revealing miseries and miseries and hells and hells. In ~ Osho,

756:Xxxxxxv. An Allegory Of Time No doubt some thorough American manual can give you the low down on Europe's margins but mine, designed for only one traveller is better written & much shorter. Besides, if you remove the art, Europe's like the US, more or less a dead loss. John Forbes, Europe: a guide for Ken Searle Three ruby jewelled seeds free fall between the pomegranate's cosmetically enhanced skin & the forefinger of the pre-pubescent Christ child. This fruit stigmata; pre-Christian underworld throwback makes Martin Johnston pause, smile, push his glasses back up the long wall of his nose. His left hand combs through black shoulder length Velasquez hair, stump-jumping over the Doric capital of a hidden mole. His Italian hiking boots squeak like a pair of Inquisition thumbscrews turned up to the max, inches across the polished beech fingernail floor. Bosch's demented figures take on more of that tortured look. Bite down hard on the afternoon's touched up flesh. Further on, St Francis dances on the head of a leopard to receive the crown of thorns from Jesus & Martin, turning a corner, enters a scene of true chaos. Two deranged men, a fat, thirty -something Australian & an elderly American tourist jostle each other over a plumb position to view Picasso's Guernica. Martin, distracted by the sound of security guards about to pounce, 56 doesn't hang around to see the fun. Splits this sad Western ex-pat scene & skips casually over the next couple of centuries; thinks about the five hours he queued once, to get into the Uffizi Gallery, & the one hour it took him to go through it. ~ B. R. Dionysius,

757:Vanity Fair In Vanity Fair, as we bow and smile, As we talk of the opera after the weather, As we chat of fashion and fad and style, We know we are playing a part together. You know that the mirth she wears, she borrows; She knows you laugh but to hide your sorrows; We know that under the silks and laces, And back of beautiful, beaming faces, Lie secret trouble and grim despair, In Vanity Fair. In Vanity Fair, on dress parade, Our colors look bright and our swords are gleaming; But many a uniform's worn and frayed, And most of the weapons, despite their seeming. Are dull and blunted and badly battered, And close inspection will show how tattered And stained are the banners that float above us. Our comrades hate, while they swear to love us; And robed like Pleasure walks gaunt-eyed Care, In Vanity Fair. In Vanity Fair, as we strive for place, As we rush and jostle and crowd and hurry, We know the goal is not worth the raceWe know the prize is not worth the worry; That all our gain means loss for another; That in fighting for self we wound each other; That the crown of success weighs hard and presse The brow of the victor with thorns-not caresses; That honors are empty and worthless to wear, In Vanity Fair. But in Vanity Fair, as we pass along, We meet strong hearts that are worth the knowing; 'Mong poor paste jewels that deck the throng, 874 We see a solitaire sometimes glowing. We find grand souls under robes of fashion, 'Neath light demeanors hide strength and passion; And fair fine honor and Godlike resistance. In halls of pleasure may have existence; And we find pure altars and shrines of prayer, In Vanity Fair. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

758:My Prayer O God! forgive the erring thought, The erring word and deed, And in thy mercy hear the Christ Who comes to intercede. My sins, like mountain-weights of lead, Weigh heavy on my soul; I'm bruised and broken in this strife, But Thou canst make me whole. Allay this fever of unrest, That fights against the Will; And in Thy still small voice do Thou But whisper, 'Peace, be still!' Until within this heart of mine Thy lasting peace come down, Will all the waves of Passion roll, Each good resolve to drown. We walk in blindness and dark night Through half our earthly way; Our clouds of weaknesses obscure The glory of the day. We cannot lead the lives we would, But grope in dumb amaze, Leaving the straight and flowery paths To tread the crooked ways. We are as pilgrims toiling on Through all the weary hours; And our poor hands are torn with thorns, Plucking life's tempting flowers. We worship at a thousand shrines, And build upon the sands, Passing the one great Temple, and The Rock on which it stands. 101 O, fading dream of human life! What can this change portend? I long for higher walks, and true Progression without end. Here I know nothing, and my search Can find no secret out; I cannot think a single thought That is not mixed with doubt. Relying on the higher source, The influence divine, I can but hope that light may dawn Within this soul of mine. I ask not wisdom, such as that To which the world is prone, Nor knowledge ask, unless it come Direct from God alone. Send down then, God! in mercy send Thy Love and Truth to me, That I may henceforth walk in light That comes direct from Thee. ~ Charles Sangster,

759:I HAVE loved; for the first time with passion I rave! I then was the servant, but now am the slave; I then was the servant of all: By this creature so charming I now am fast bound, To love and love's guerdon she turns all around, And her my sole mistress I call. l've had faith; for the first time my faith is now strong! And though matters go strangely, though matters go wrong, To the ranks of the faithful I'm true: Though ofttimes 'twas dark and though ofttimes 'twas drear, In the pressure of need, and when danger was near, Yet the dawning of light I now view. I have eaten; but ne'er have thus relish'd my food! For when glad are the senses, and joyous the blood, At table all else is effaced As for youth, it but swallows, then whistles an air; As for me, to a jovial resort I'd repair, Where to eat, and enjoy what I taste. I have drunk; but have never thus relish'd the bowl! For wine makes us lords, and enlivens the soul, And loosens the trembling slave's tongue. Let's not seek to spare then the heart-stirring drink, For though in the barrel the old wine may sink, In its place will fast mellow the young. I have danced, and to dancing am pledged by a vow! Though no caper or waltz may be raved about now, In a dance that's becoming, whirl round. And he who a nosegay of flowers has dress'd, And cares not for one any more than the rest, With a garland of mirth is aye crown'd. Then once more be merry, and banish all woes! For he who but gathers the blossoming rose. By its thorns will be tickled alone. To-day still, as yesterday, glimmers the star; Take care from all heads that hang down to keep far, And make but the future thine own. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Wont And Done ,

760:The Herb Of Grace Find some freckled fern seed to sprinkle in your shoes And you may step invisible down the peopled street, Or curve about the apple boughs like swallows if you choose, Lifted by the elfin wings that tingle in your feet. Oh, you may cull a-many sweets with fern seed iin your shoe! But leave alone the rue-Little boy, little girl, Leave alone the rue! Keep the downy dittany and storms will bring you calm, Fill a vervain pillow for a thought-grieved head; Cherish balm whene'er you can, there's none too much of balm, And never stop for rosemary, 'twill follow where you tread. Taste the scarlet love-apple, if youth will drive you to, But leave alone the rue-Fair lass, fine lad, Leave alone the rue! Mix tansy in your Easter cake and earn a placid year, For though you cross the Little Folk they cannot then offend; Give a spray and take a spray of ivy from your dear, But pay with coin for parsley, or its price will be a friend. Wear a four-leafed clover and the charm will win you through; But leave alone the rue-Grave man, wise woman, Leave alone the rue! Lovelier than wealth is laughing potentilla's gold, Eyebright is beautiful and kind to eyes that weep; Rich herbs of healing the wild glens hold With hemlock and foxglove for those sick for sleep. Surely there are flowers enough and strong leaves too! Must you gather rue? Poor things, poor things, Leave alone the rue! Come the aged creeping, each with wreaths for his own grave, Dried roses, laurel leaves, wisps of dead grass, Young-eyed forget-me-nots that old tears lave, Heartsease, and love-lies-bleeding, bare thorns, alas! Choice of life's harvesting that tells the tale true! And all carry rue, Evergreen, bitter green, All carry rue! ~ Elsie Cole,

761:A second way of sharing in these meanings belongs to those who so highly esteem what is disclosed to them of the attributes of majesty that their high regard releases a longing to possess this attribute in every way possible to them, so that they may grow closer to the Truth-in quality not in place; and with the possession of such characteristics they become similar to the angels, who have been brought near to God-great and glorious. Moreover, it is inconceivable that a heart be filled with high regard for such an attribute and be illuminated by it without a longing for this attribute following upon it, as well as a passionate love for that perfection and majesty, intent upon being adorned with that attribute in its totality-inasmuch as that is possible to one who so esteems it. And if not in its totality, the esteem for this attribute will necessarily provoke in him the longing for as much of it as he can assimilate. No-one will lack this longing except for one of two reasons: either from inadequate knowledge and certainty that the attribute in question is one of the attributes of majesty and perfection, or from the fact that one's heart is filled with another longing and absorbed by it. For when a disciple observes the perfection of his master in knowledge, longing will be triggered in him to be like him and to follow his example-unless he be filled with hunger, for example, so that the preoccupation of his innards for food could prevent the longing for knowledge from arising in him. So it is necessary for the one who would contemplate the attributes of God most high to have emptied his heart of desiring anything except God- great and glorious. For knowledge is the seed of longing, but only to the extent that it encounters a heart freed from the thorns of the passions, for unless the heart be empty the seed will not bear fruit. ~ Abu Hamid al-Ghazali,

762:To Men Sirs, when you pity us, I say You waste your pity. Let it stay, Well corked and stored upon your shelves, Until you need it for yourselves. We do appreciate God's thought In forming you, before He brought Us into life. His art was crude, But oh, so virile in its rude Large elemental strength: and then He learned His trade in making men; Learned how to mix and mould the clay And fashion in a finer way. How fine that skilful way can be You need but lift your eyes to see; And we are glad God placed you there To lift your eyes and find us fair. Apprentice labour though you were, He made you great enough to stir The best and deepest depths of us, And we are glad he made you thus. Ay! we are glad of many things. God strung our hearts with such fine strings The least breath movces them, and we hear Music where silence greets your ear. We suffer so? but women's souls Like violet powder dropped on coals, Give forth their best in anguish. Oh, The subtle secrets that we know, Of joy in sorrow, strange delights Of ecstasy in pain-filled nights, And mysteries of gain in loss Known but to Christ upon the Cross! 851 Our tears are pitiful to you? Look how the heaven-reflecting dew Dissolves its life in tears. The sand Meanwhile lies hard upon the strand. How could your pity find a place For us, the mothers of the race? Men may be fathers unaware, So poor the title is you wear, But mothers -? Who that crown adorns Knows all its mingled blooms and thorns; And she whose feet that path hath trod Has walked upon the heights with God. No, offer us not pity's cup. There is no looking down or up Between us: eye looks straight in eye: Born equals, so we live and die. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

763:All-Saints' Day (1867) Blessed are they whose baby-souls are bright, Whose brows are sealèd with the cross of light, Whom God Himself has deign'd to robe in white— Blessed are they! Blessed are they who follow through the wild His sacred footprints, as a little child; Who strive to keep their garments undefiled— Blessed are they! Blessed are they who commune with the Christ, Midst holy angels, at the Eucharist— Who aye seek sunlight through the rain and mist— Blessed are they! Blessed are they—the strong in faith and grace— Who humbly fill their own appointed place; They who with steadfast patience run the race— Blessed are they! Blessed are they who suffer and endure— They who through thorns and briars walk safe and sure; Gold in the fire made beautiful and pure!— Blessed are they! Blessed are they on whom the angels wait, To keep them facing the celestial gate, To help them keep their vows inviolate— Blessed are they! Blessed are they to whom, at dead of night,— In work, in prayer—though veiled from mortal sight, The great King's messengers bring love and light— Blessed are they! Blessed are they whose labours only cease When God decrees the quiet, sweet release; Who lie down calmly in the sleep of peace— Blessed are they! 48 Whose dust is angel-guarded, where the flowers And soft moss cover it, in this earth of ours; Whose souls are roaming in celestial bowers— Blessed are they! Blessed are they—our precious ones—who trod A pathway for us o'er the rock-strewn sod. How are they number'd with the saints of God! Blessed are they! Blessed are they, elected to sit down With Christ, in that day of supreme renown, When His own Bride shall wear her bridal crown— Blessed are they! ~ Ada Cambridge,

764:The Devil's Rose You would never take a rose from a beast. If his callous hand were to hold out a scarlet flower, his grip unaffected by pricking thorns, you would shrink from the gift and refuse it. I know that is what you would do. But the cunning beast will have his beauty. He hunts not in hopeless pursuit, for fear would have you sprint all the day long. Thus, he turns toward the shadows and clutches the rosebud, crunching and twisting until every delicate petal is detached. One falls not far from your feet, and you notice the red spot in the snow. The color sparkles in the sunlight, catching your curious eye. No beast stands in sight; there is nothing to fear, so you dare retrieve the lone petal. The touch of temptation is velvet against your thumb. It carries a scent you bring to your nose, and both eyes close to float on a cloud of perfume. As your lashes lift, another scarlet drop stains the snow at a near distance. A glance around perceives no danger, and so your footprints scar the snowflakes to retrieve another rosy leaflet as soft and sweet as the first. Your eyes shine with flecks of golden greed at the discovery of more discarded petals, and you blame the wind for scattering them mere footprints apart. All you want is a few, so you step and snatch, step and snatch, step and snatch. Soon, there is enough velvet to rub against your cheek like a silken kerchief. Your collection of one-plus-one-more reeks of floral essence. Distracted, you jump at the sight of the beast in your path. He stands before his lair, grinning without love. His callous hands grip at thorns on a single naked stem, and you look down at your own hands that now cup his rose. But how can it be? You would never take a rose from a beast. You would shrink from the gift and refuse it. He knows that is what you would do. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

765:-------------------------------------------------------------------------------[About the year 1842 a party of stockmen, several of whom were afterwards hanged for the crime, made a wholesale slaughter of a small tribe of defenceless blacks; one woman only, with her infant, escaped from the murderers.] Still farther would I fly, my child, To make thee safer yet, From the unsparing white man, With his dread hand murder-wet! I’ll bear thee on as I have borne With stealthy steps wind-fleet, But the dark night shrouds the forest, And thorns are in my feet. O moan not! I would give this braid— Thy father’s gift to me— But for a single palmful Of water now for thee. Ah! Spring not to his name—no more To glad us may he come! He is smouldering into ashes Beneath the blasted gum! All charred and blasted by the fire The white man kindled there, And fed with our slaughtered kindred Till heaven-high went its glare! O moan not! I would give this braid— Thy father’s gift to me— For but a single palmful Of water now for thee. And but for thee, I would their fire Had eaten me as fast! 31 Hark! Hark! I hear his death-cry Yet lengthening up the blast! But no—when that we should fly, On the roaring pyre flung bleeding— I saw thy father die! O moan not! I would give this braid— Thy father’s gift to me— For but a single palmful Of water now for thee. No more shall his loud tomahawk Be plied to win our cheer, Or the shining fish-pools darken Beneath his shadowing spear; The fading tracks of his fleet foot Shall guide not as before, And the mountain-spirits mimic His hunting call no more! O moan not! I would give this braid— Thy father’s gift to me— For but a single palmful Of water now for thee. ~ Charles Harpur,

766:March 7 MORNING “Have faith in God.” — Mark 11:22 FAITH is the foot of the soul by which it can march along the road of the commandments. Love can make the feet move more swiftly; but faith is the foot which carries the soul. Faith is the oil enabling the wheels of holy devotion and of earnest piety to move well; and without faith the wheels are taken from the chariot, and we drag heavily. With faith I can do all things; without faith I shall neither have the inclination nor the power to do anything in the service of God. If you would find the men who serve God the best, you must look for the men of the most faith. Little faith will save a man, but little faith cannot do great things for God. Poor Little-faith could not have fought “Apollyon;” it needed “Christian” to do that. Poor Little-faith could not have slain “Giant Despair;” it required “Great-heart’s” arm to knock that monster down. Little-faith will go to heaven most certainly, but it often has to hide itself in a nut-shell, and it frequently loses all but its jewels. Little-faith says, “It is a rough road, beset with sharp thorns, and full of dangers; I am afraid to go;” but Great-faith remembers the promise, “Thy shoes shall be iron and brass; as thy days, so shall thy strength be:” and so she boldly ventures. Little-faith stands desponding, mingling her tears with the flood; but Great-faith sings, “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee:” and she fords the stream at once. Would you be comfortable and happy? Would you enjoy religion? Would you have the religion of cheerfulness and not that of gloom? Then “have faith in God.” If you love darkness, and are satisfied to dwell in gloom and misery, then be content with little faith; but if you love the sunshine, and would sing songs of rejoicing, covet earnestly this best gift, “great faith. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

767:Prosperity Enlaced with gardened jewelry My basking villas nest Where sifted sunshine soothes the eye And cosy hillocks rest. Convention's fronds here screen from view Immodest Nature's haunt, And wizard Distance veils in blue The haggard peaks of Want. The millions fast that I may feast, And drudge that I may play; But Average, complacent priest, Condones the wrong away: Finesse, my statesman, calculates Subjection's breaking strain, And Comfort crooning mitigates The drifting moan of pain. My sages God's commandments frame From maxims of the desk: My Art, from poverty and shame, Evolves the Picturesque: By glamour haloed, leering Lust So angel-like appears That Scruple loses her distrust, And Innocence her fears. Secure I lounge upon the shore Where Anger's breakers throb, Or, high above the marsh, ignore Its ague-smitten mob. The highways to Desire I hold, And fatten on the fees; My hungry Science gathers gold From limbecks of disease. 36 Success, my sorcerer, refines My murder-tainted hoard, And hides the felon weals and lines With which my back is scored: He perfumes from my women's gowns Their tainted makers' shame; In Glory cyclic Wrong he drowns, And Treachery in Fame. Who reaches me a stream must ford Whose poppied waters dim Old dreams of wielding Freedom's sword And chanting Freedom's hymn: Must hold the claims of Discontent Mere envies of the mass; That Life's repose was only meant To dower the ruling class: Must learn that Nature weakness scorns, That God the serfs ignores, That Toil deserves its crown of thorns, And Poverty its sores; That tho' 'tis wise with Charity Torrential Need to dam, The Hope of Progress is a lie And Brotherhood a sham. ~ Bernard O'Dowd,

768:April 25 MORNING “Rise up my love, my fair one, and come away.” — Song of Solomon 2:10 LO, I hear the voice of my Beloved! He speaks to me! Fair weather is smiling upon the face of the earth, and He would not have me spiritually asleep while nature is all around me awaking from her winter’s rest. He bids me “Rise up,” and well He may, for I have long enough been lying among the pots of worldliness. He is risen, I am risen in Him, why then should I cleave unto the dust? From lower loves, desires, pursuits, and aspirations, I would rise towards Him. He calls me by the sweet title of “My love,” and counts me fair; this is a good argument for my rising. If He has thus exalted me, and thinks me thus comely, how can I linger in the tents of Kedar and find congenial associates among the sons of men? He bids me “Come away.” Further and further from everything selfish, grovelling, worldly, sinful, He calls me; yea, from the outwardly religious world which knows Him not, and has no sympathy with the mystery of the higher life, He calls me. “Come away” has no harsh sound in it to my ear, for what is there to hold me in this wilderness of vanity and sin? O my Lord, would that I could come away, but I am taken among the thorns, and cannot escape from them as I would. I would, if it were possible, have neither eyes, nor ears, nor heart for sin. Thou callest me to Thyself by saying “Come away,” and this is a melodious call indeed. To come to Thee is to come home from exile, to come to land out of the raging storm, to come to rest after long labour, to come to the goal of my desires and the summit of my wishes. But Lord, how can a stone rise, how can a lump of clay come away from the horrible pit? O raise me, draw me. Thy grace can do it. Send forth Thy Holy Spirit to kindle sacred flames of love in my heart, and I will continue to rise until I leave life and time behind me, and indeed come away. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

769:February 16 MORNING “I have learned, in whatever state I am, therewith to be content.” — Philippians 4:11 THESE words show us that contentment is not a natural propensity of man. “Ill weeds grow apace.” Covetousness, discontent, and murmuring are as natural to man as thorns are to the soil. We need not sow thistles and brambles; they come up naturally enough, because they are indigenous to earth: and so, we need not teach men to complain; they complain fast enough without any education. But the precious things of the earth must be cultivated. If we would have wheat, we must plough and sow; if we want flowers, there must be the garden, and all the gardener’s care. Now, contentment is one of the flowers of heaven, and if we would have it, it must be cultivated; it will not grow in us by nature; it is the new nature alone that can produce it, and even then we must be specially careful and watchful that we maintain and cultivate the grace which God has sown in us. Paul says, “I have learned . . . to be content;” as much as to say, he did not know how at one time. It cost him some pains to attain to the mystery of that great truth. No doubt he sometimes thought he had learned, and then broke down. And when at last he had attained unto it, and could say, “I have learned in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content,” he was an old, grey-headed man, upon the borders of the grave — a poor prisoner shut up in Nero’s dungeon at Rome. We might well be willing to endure Paul’s infirmities, and share the cold dungeon with him, if we too might by any means attain unto his good degree. Do not indulge the notion that you can be contented with learning, or learn without discipline. It is not a power that may be exercised naturally, but a science to be acquired gradually. We know this from experience. Brother, hush that murmur, natural though it be, and continue a diligent pupil in the College of Content. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

770:March 11 MORNING “Sin . . . exceeding sinful.” — Romans 7:13 BEWARE of light thoughts of sin. At the time of conversion, the conscience is so tender, that we are afraid of the slightest sin. Young converts have a holy timidity, a godly fear lest they should offend against God. But alas! very soon the fine bloom upon these first ripe fruits is removed by the rough handling of the surrounding world: the sensitive plant of young piety turns into a willow in after life, too pliant, too easily yielding. It is sadly true, that even a Christian may grow by degrees so callous, that the sin which once startled him does not alarm him in the least. By degrees men get familiar with sin. The ear in which the cannon has been booming will not notice slight sounds. At first a little sin startles us; but soon we say, “Is it not a little one?” Then there comes another, larger, and then another, until by degrees we begin to regard sin as but a little ill; and then follows an unholy presumption: “We have not fallen into open sin. True, we tripped a little, but we stood upright in the main. We may have uttered one unholy word, but as for the most of our conversation, it has been consistent.” So we palliate sin; we throw a cloak over it; we call it by dainty names. Christian, beware how thou thinkest lightly of sin. Take heed lest thou fall by little and little. Sin, a little thing? Is it not a poison? Who knows its deadliness? Sin, a little thing? Do not the little foxes spoil the grapes? Doth not the tiny coral insect build a rock which wrecks a navy? Do not little strokes fell lofty oaks? Will not continual droppings wear away stones? Sin, a little thing? It girded the Redeemer’s head with thorns, and pierced His heart! It made Him suffer anguish, bitterness, and woe. Could you weigh the least sin in the scales of eternity, you would fly from it as from a serpent, and abhor the least appearance of evil. Look upon all sin as that which crucified the Saviour, and you will see it to be “exceeding ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

771:Sic Vos Non Vobis Ye, that the untrod paths have braved, With heart and brain unbound; Who ask not that your souls be saved, But that the Truth be found; Whose fiery cross is borne unseen, Whose meek brows, bleeding but serene With only thorns are crowned; Who, still and steadfast, stand for Right, Though none acclaim and none requite: Who learn how little is the sum Of all that Truth can teach, And where the serried boundaries come That bar your utmost reach; For whom so sage, no saint, can find A clue to aught that lies behind; For whom the preachers preach Only to leave ye at the door That opens to their knock no more: Who, listening in the trackless night, Hearing no bugle-call, Still fight, undaunted, the good fight, And never fail or fall; Who, standing on an inch of ground, Feel the Infinities around, Yet dare to face it all, And keep the life ye hold in trust Safe from besetting moth and rust. Life - tragic mystery of Man Strange tale of joy and grief! Chaff for the errant winds to fan, A bubble bright and brief, That floats and shines and bursts unseen, And leaves no trace where it has been; Like thistle-down and leaf, That in soft airs of autumn dance, The helpless sport of Fate and Chance. 174 Ye, who can see the case so clear, And scorn to cringe and moan, Who follow humbly, without fear, The soul's behest alone; Content to suffer for the sake Of faithful manhood, and to make A loftier stepping-stone, A straighter way, a smoother street, For tread of unborn children's feet. Ye, whom the children's sorrows rend, And who despise the smart, Who walk uprightly to the end With an undoubting heart, To take the guerdon of your pain Death, with no hope to live again Ye have the better part, Salt of the world, that keeps it sound! Kings that shall yet be throned and crowned. ~ Ada Cambridge,

772:Carthusians Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire, Have these white monks been brought into the way of peace, Despising the world's wisdom and the world's desire, Which from the body of this death bring no release? Within their austere walls no voices penetrate; A sacred silence only, as of death, obtains; Nothing finds entry here of loud or passionate; This quiet is the exceeding profit of their pains. From many lands they came, in divers fiery ways; Each knew at last the vanity of earthly joys; And one was crowned with thorns, and one was crowned with bays, And each was tired at last of the world's foolish noise. It was not theirs with Dominic to preach God's holy wrath, They were too stern to bear sweet Francis' gentle sway; Theirs was a higher calling and a steeper path, To dwell alone with Christ, to meditate and pray. A cloistered company, they are companionless, None knoweth here the secret of his brother's heart: They are but come together for more loneliness, Whose bond is solitude and silence all their part. O beatific life! Who is there shall gainsay, Your great refusal's victory, your little loss, Deserting vanity for the more perfect way, The sweeter service of the most dolorous Cross. Ye shall prevail at last! Surely ye shall prevail! Your silence and austerity shall win at last: Desire and mirth, the world's ephemeral lights shall fail, The sweet star of your queen is never overcast. We fling up flowers and laugh, we laugh across the wine; With wine we dull our souls and careful strains of art; Our cups are polished skulls round which the roses twine: None dares to look at Death who leers and lurks apart. 22 Move on, white company, whom that has not sufficed! Our viols cease, our wine is death, our roses fail: Pray for our heedlessness, O dwellers with the Christ! Though the world fall apart, surely ye shall prevail. ~ Ernest Christopher Dowson,

773:What good does it do me, after all, if an ever-watchful authority keeps an eye out to ensure that my pleasures will be tranquil and races ahead of me to ward off all danger, sparing me the need even to think about such things, if that authority, even as it removes the smallest thorns from my path, is also absolute master of my liberty and my life; if it monopolizes vitality and existence to such a degree that when it languishes, everything around it must also languish; when it sleeps, everything must also sleep; and when it dies, everything must also perish? There are some nations in Europe whose inhabitants think of themselves in a sense as colonists, indifferent to the fate of the place they live in. The greatest changes occur in their country without their cooperation. They are not even aware of precisely what has taken place. They suspect it; they have heard of the event by chance. More than that, they are unconcerned with the fortunes of their village, the safety of their streets, the fate of their church and its vestry. They think that such things have nothing to do with them, that they belong to a powerful stranger called “the government.” They enjoy these goods as tenants, without a sense of ownership, and never give a thought to how they might be improved. They are so divorced from their own interests that even when their own security and that of their children is finally compromised, they do not seek to avert the danger themselves but cross their arms and wait for the nation as a whole to come to their aid. Yet as utterly as they sacrifice their own free will, they are no fonder of obedience than anyone else. They submit, it is true, to the whims of a clerk, but no sooner is force removed than they are glad to defy the law as a defeated enemy. Thus one finds them ever wavering between servitude and license. When a nation has reached this point, it must either change its laws and mores or perish, for the well of public virtue has run dry: in such a place one no longer finds citizens but only subjects. ~ Alexis de Tocqueville,

774:Ballad Of The Army Carts Wagons rattling and banging, horses neighing and snorting, conscripts marching, each with bow and arrows at his hip, fathers and mothers, wives and children, running to see them off-so much dust kicked up you can't see Xian-yang Bridge! And the families pulling at their clothes, stamping feet in anger, blocking the way and weeping-ah, the sound of their wailing rises straight up to assault heaven. And a passerby asks, 'What's going on?' The soldier says simply, 'This happens all the time. From age fifteen some are sent to guard the north, and even at forty some work the army farms in the west. When they leave home, the village headman has to wrap their turbans for them; when they come back, white-haired, they're still guarding the frontier. The frontier posts run with blood enough to fill an ocean, and the war-loving Emperor's dreams of conquest have still not ended. Hasn't he heard that in Han, east of the mountains, there are two hundred prefectures, thousands and thousands of villages, growing nothing but thorns? And even where there is a sturdy wife to handle hoe and plough, the poor crops grow raggedly in haphazard fields. It's even worse for the men of Qin; they're such good fighters they're driven from battle to battle like dogs or chickens. Even though you were kind enough to ask, good sir, perhaps I shouldn't express such resentment. But take this winter, for instance, they still haven't demobilized the troops of Guanxi, and the tax collectors are pressing everyone for land-fees-land-fees!--from where is that money supposed to come? Truly, it is an evil thing to bear a son these days, it is much better to have daughters; at least you can marry a daughter to the neighbor, but a son is born only to die, his body lost in the wild grass. Has my lord seen the shores of the Kokonor? The white bones lie there in drifts, uncollected. New ghosts complain and old ghosts weep, under the lowering sky their voices cry out in the rain.' 19 ~ Du Fu,

775:Venus was rising, holding her own in the sky that was beginning to brighten. As I left the docks and warehouses behind, I came to a marshy shoreline, thick with water reeds. Though the sky above was clear, the water's surface swirled with little mists. I began to sing a song to Isis, made up on the spot, which caught the rhythm of the oars. A breeze sprang up and the reeds sang with me. Then as the first rays of sun dimmed the stars, birds everywhere lifted their voices and rose in line after line into the sky. On the outskirts of the city, I came to what looked like it might have been an abandoned villa or farmstead. I decided to sit down and watch the lake changing colors with the light. That's when I heard it. Not the soft lapping of the water against the shore, but the sound of flowing water. I looked and in the glowing light, I saw a small stream, eally just a trickle washing down a pebbly incline towards the lake. Something prompted me to follow the stream inland. I made my way though brambly thickets of brambling roses. The way seemed to open for me, the thorns all but retracting so as not to catch my cloak or scratch my arms and legs. At the source, I knelt down and parted the thicket, and there it was. The spring at the base of the hill so steep, it was almost a cliff. The water bubbled up from the darkness of earth, giving back the brightness of sky. Like all springs, a way between worlds. I was no stranger to sacred springs and magic wells. I was raised to revere them. I had first glimpsed my beloved on the well of wisdom on Tir n mBan. But this spring. I closed my eyes to listen to its sound, and I knew I had heard it before. The wind picked up, washing over me, scented with fish and roses. When it quieted again, I opened my eyes and gazed at the clear surface of the pool, and for an instant, I saw a tower, and the dawn sky, and the two people standing there. Then the image vanished, but I had seen all I needed to see. Alright, I said to myself, my goddess, to Miriam's know it all angels, Magala is is. And by the way, I added, my name is Maeve. ~ Elizabeth Cunningham,

776:Davideis: A Sacred Poem Of The Troubles Of David (Excerpt) BOOK I (excerpt) I sing the man who Judah's sceptre bore In that right hand which held the crook before; Who from best poet, best of kings did grow; The two chief gifts Heav'n could on man bestow. Much danger first, much toil did he sustain, Whilst Saul and Hell cross'd his strong fate in vain. Nor did his crown less painful work afford; Less exercise his patience, or his sword; So long her conqueror fortunes spite pursued; Till with unwearied virtue he subdued All homebred malice, and all foreign boasts; Their strength was armies, his the Lord of Hosts. Thou, who didst David's royal stem adorn, And gav'st him birth from whom thy self wast born; Who didst in triumph at death's court appear, And slew'st him with thy nails, thy cross and spear, Whilst Hell's black tyrant trembled to behold, The glorious light he forfeited of old; Who Heav'ns glad burden now, and justest pride, Sit'st high enthron'd next thy great Father's side, (Where hallowed flames help to adorn that head Which once the blushing thorns environed, Till crimson drops of precious blood hung down Like rubies to enrich thine humble crown.) Even thou my breast with such blest rage inspire, As mov'd the tuneful strings of David's lyre, Guide my bold steps with thine old travelling flame, In these untrodden paths to sacred fame; Lo, with pure hands thy heav'enly fires to take, My well-chang'd Muse I a chaste vestal make! From earth's vain joys, and love's soft witchcraft free, I consecrate my Magdalene to thee! Lo, this great work, a temple to thy praise, On polish'd pillars of strong verse I raise! A temple, where if thou vouchsafe to dwell, 22 It Solomon's, and Herod's shall excel. Too long the Muses-land have heathen bin; Their gods too long were devils, and virtues sin; But thou, Eternal Word, has call'd forth me Th' apostle, to convert that world to thee; T' unbind the charms that in slight fables lie, And teach that truth is purest poesy. ... ~ Abraham Cowley,

777:From the Greek of Bion. I mourn Adonis deadloveliest Adonis-- Dead, dead Adonis--and the Loves lament. Sleep no more, Venus, wrapped in purple woof-- Wake violet-stoled queen, and weave the crown Of Death,--'tis Misery calls,--for he is dead. The lovely one lies wounded in the mountains, His white thigh struck with the white tooth; he scarce Yet breathes; and Venus hangs in agony there. The dark blood wanders o'er his snowy limbs, His eyes beneath their lids are lustreless, The rose has fled from his wan lips, and there That kiss is dead, which Venus gathers yet. A deep, deep wound Adonis... A deeper Venus bears upon her heart. See, his beloved dogs are gathering round-- The Oread nymphs are weeping--Aphrodite With hair unbound is wandering through the woods, 'Wildered, ungirt, unsandalled--the thorns pierce Her hastening feet and drink her sacred blood. Bitterly screaming out, she is driven on Through the long vales; and her Assyrian boy, Her love, her husband, calls--the purple blood From his struck thigh stains her white navel now, Her bosom, and her neck before like snow. Alas for Cythereathe Loves mourn-- The lovely, the beloved is gone!--and now Her sacred beauty vanishes away. For Venus whilst Adonis lived was fair-- Alas! her loveliness is dead with him. The oaks and mountains cry, Ai! ai! Adonis! The springs their waters change to tears and weep-- The flowers are withered up with grief... Ai! ai! ... Adonis is dead Echo resounds ... Adonis dead. Who will weep not thy dreadful woe. O Venus? Soon as she saw and knew the mortal wound Of her Adonissaw the life-blood flow From his fair thigh, now wasting,wailing loud She clasped him, and cried ... 'Stay, Adonis! Stay, dearest one,... and mix my lips with thine-- Wake yet a while, Adonisoh, but once, That I may kiss thee now for the last time-- But for as long as one short kiss may live-- Oh, let thy breath flow from thy dying soul Even to my mouth and heart, that I may suck That...' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragment Of The Elegy On The Death Of Adonis ,

778:The Comet -1858 Erratic Soul of some great Purpose, doomed To track the wild illimitable space, Till sure propitiation has been made For the divine commission unperformed! What was thy crime? Ahasuerus' curse Were not more stern on earth than thine in Heaven! Art thou the Spirit of some Angel World, For grave rebellion banished from thy peers, Compelled to watch the calm, immortal stars, Circling in rapture the celestial void, While the avenger follows in thy train To spur thee on to wretchedness eterne? Or one of nature's wildest fantasies, From which she flies in terror so profound, And with such whirl of torment in her breast, That mighty earthquakes yearn where'er she treads; While War makes red its terrible right hand, And Famine stalks abroad all lean and wan? To us thou art as exquisitely fair As the ideal visions of the seer, Or gentlest fancy that e'er floated down Imagination's bright, unruffled stream, Wedding the thought that was too deep for words To the low breathings of inspired song. When the stars sang together o'er the birth Of the poor Babe at Bethlehem, that lay In the coarse manger at the crowded Inn, Didst thou, perhaps a bright exalted star, Refuse to swell the grand, harmonious lay, Jealous as Herod of the birth divine? Or when the crown of thorns on Calvary Pierced the Redeemer's brow, didst thou disdain To weep, when all the planetary worlds Were blinded by the fulness of their tears? 138 E'en to the flaming sun, that hid his face At the loud cry, 'Lama Sabachthani!' No rest! No rest! the very damned have that In the dark councils of remotest Hell, Where the dread scheme was perfected that sealed Thy disobedience and accruing doom. Like Adam's sons, hast thou, too, forfeited The blest repose that never pillowed Sin? No! none can tell thy fate, thou wandering Sphinx! Pale Science, searching by the midnight lamp Through the vexed mazes of the human brain, Still fails to read the secret of its soul As the superb enigma flashes by, A loosed Prometheus burning with disdain. ~ Charles Sangster,

779:Paterson What do I want in these rooms papered with visions of money? How much can I make by cutting my hair? If I put new heels on my shoes, bathe my body reeking of masturbation and sweat, layer upon layer of excrement dried in employment bureaus, magazine hallways, statistical cubicles, factory stairways, cloakrooms of the smiling gods of psychiatry; if in antechambers I face the presumption of department store supervisory employees, old clerks in their asylums of fat, the slobs and dumbbells of the ego with money and power to hire and fire and make and break and fart and justify their reality of wrath and rumor of wrath to wrath-weary man, what war I enter and for what a prize! the dead prick of commonplace obsession, harridan vision of electricity at night and daylight misery of thumb-sucking rage. I would rather go mad, gone down the dark road to Mexico, heroin dripping in my veins, eyes and ears full of marijuana, eating the god Peyote on the floor of a mudhut on the border or laying in a hotel room over the body of some suffering man or woman; rather jar my body down the road, crying by a diner in the Western sun; rather crawl on my naked belly over the tincans of Cincinnati; rather drag a rotten railroad tie to a Golgotha in the Rockies; rather, crowned with thorns in Galveston, nailed hand and foot in Los Angeles, raised up to die in Denver, pierced in the side in Chicago, perished and tombed in New Orleans and resurrected in 1958 somewhere on Garret Mountain, come down roaring in a blaze of hot cars and garbage, streetcorner Evangel in front of City I-Tall, surrounded by statues of agonized lions, with a mouthful of shit, and the hair rising on my scalp, screaming and dancing in praise of Eternity annihilating the sidewalk, annihilating reality, screaming and dancing against the orchestra in the destructible ballroom of the world, blood streaming from my belly and shoulders 62 flooding the city with its hideous ecstasy, rolling over the pavements and highways by the bayoux and forests and derricks leaving my flesh and my bones hanging on the trees. ~ Allen Ginsberg,

780:The rose is a symbol of the inner mysteries of Witchcraft. A red rose symbolizes the mysteries as they reside in Nature, within the living things. The white rose symbolizes the Otherworld and the mysteries hidden in secret places. When a single rose appears with white petals in the center of red petals, this represents the mysteries joined together within one reality. Thorns appearing with the rose represent challenges and the dedication required to fully grasp the enlightenment of the rose. One of the symbolisms associated with the rose reveals the covenant between the Witch and the Faery. In this, we find that both are stewards of the portal that opens to the inner mysteries. The Faery holds the celestial key, and the Witch bears the terrestrial key. When the two are joined together, they form an X—the sign of the crossroads. In this formation, where the keys cross we find a third point, the in-between place at the center. This is where the portal exists, and this is where it opens between the worlds. Look at the shape of the X and you can see four pointed tip markers (the V shapes). The upper half of the X points down, and the lower half points up. On the sides of the X, you can see that the left and right halves point to the center. This shows us that when the celestial and terrestrial realms join, they pull together the left ways and the right ways. These are occult terms for esoteric and exoteric modes of consciousness. In the fusion, everything briefly loses its distinction, its ability to mask the opposite reality, and in doing so, the secret third reality emerges in the center of it all. If this sounds confusing or nonsensical, then the guardian of that portal is doing its job well. The material in this book will connect you with an entity connected to the rose and its mystery. This is the previously mentioned She of the Thorn-Blooded Rose. With her guidance, you can be directed to the portal, and through it you can meet a variety of beings and entities. However, her primary task is to connect you with the Greenwood Realm and the plant spirits within it. In your journey to encounter these spirits, you will pass through the organic memory of the earth. You'll walk upon roads of mystical concepts and be accompanied by the Old Ones of ~ Raven Grimassi,

781:Cui Bono Oh! wind that whistles o'er thorns and thistles, Of this fruitful earth like a goblin elf; Why should he labour to help his neighbour Who feels too reckless to help himself? The wail of the breeze in the bending trees Is something between a laugh and a groan; And the hollow roar of the surf on the shore Is a dull, discordant monotone; I wish I could guess what sense they express, There's a meaning, doubtless, in every sound, Yet no one can tell, and it may be as well — Whom would it profit? — The world goes round! On this earth so rough we know quite enough, And, I sometimes fancy, a little too much; The sage may be wiser than clown or than kaiser, Is he more to be envied for being such? Neither more nor less, in his idleness The sage is doom'd to vexation sure; The kaiser may rule, but the slippery stool, That he calls his throne, is no sinecure; And as for the clown, you may give him a crown, Maybe he'll thank you, and maybe not, And before you can wink he may spend it in drink — To whom does it profit? — We ripe and rot! Yet under the sun much work is done By clown and kaiser, by serf and sage; All sow and some reap, and few gather the heap Of the garner'd grain of a by-gone age. By sea or by soil man is bound to toil, And the dreamer, waiting for time and tide, For awhile may shirk his share of the work, But he grows with his dream dissatisfied; He may climb to the edge of the beetling ledge, Where the loose crag topples and well-nigh reels 'Neath the lashing gale, but the tonic will fail — What does it profit? — Wheels within wheels! 131 Aye! work we must, or with idlers rust, And eat we must our bodies to nurse; Some folk grow fatter — what does it matter? I'm blest if I do — quite the reverse; 'Tis a weary round to which we are bound, The same thing over and over again; Much toil and trouble, and a glittering bubble, That rises and bursts, is the best we gain; And we murmur, and yet 'tis certain we get What good we deserve — can we hope for more? — They are roaring, those waves, in their echoing caves — To whom do they profit? — Let them roar! ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

782:Fragment of the Elegy on the Death of Adonis Prom the Greek of Bion Published by Forman, "Poetical Works of P. B. S.", 1876. I mourn Adonis dead—loveliest Adonis— Dead, dead Adonis—and the Loves lament. Sleep no more, Venus, wrapped in purple woof— Wake violet-stoled queen, and weave the crown Of Death,—'tis Misery calls,—for he is dead. The lovely one lies wounded in the mountains, His white thigh struck with the white tooth; he scarce Yet breathes; and Venus hangs in agony there. The dark blood wanders o'er his snowy limbs, His eyes beneath their lids are lustreless, The rose has fled from his wan lips, and there That kiss is dead, which Venus gathers yet. A deep, deep wound Adonis... A deeper Venus bears upon her heart. See, his beloved dogs are gathering round— The Oread nymphs are weeping—Aphrodite With hair unbound is wandering through the woods, 'Wildered, ungirt, unsandalled—the thorns pierce Her hastening feet and drink her sacred blood. Bitterly screaming out, she is driven on Through the long vales; and her Assyrian boy, Her love, her husband, calls—the purple blood From his struck thigh stains her white navel now, Her bosom, and her neck before like snow. Alas for Cytherea—the Loves mourn— The lovely, the beloved is gone!—and now Her sacred beauty vanishes away. For Venus whilst Adonis lived was fair— Alas! her loveliness is dead with him. The oaks and mountains cry, Ai! ai! Adonis! The springs their waters change to tears and weep— The flowers are withered up with grief... Ai! ai! ... Adonis is dead Echo resounds ... Adonis dead. Who will weep not thy dreadful woe. O Venus? Soon as she saw and knew the mortal wound Of her Adonis—saw the life-blood flow From his fair thigh, now wasting,—wailing loud She clasped him, and cried ... 'Stay, Adonis! Stay, dearest one,... and mix my lips with thine— Wake yet a while, Adonis—oh, but once, That I may kiss thee now for the last time— But for as long as one short kiss may live— Oh, let thy breath flow from thy dying soul Even to my mouth and heart, that I may suck That...' NOTE: 23 his Rossetti, Dowden, Woodberry; her Boscombe manuscript, Forman ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

783:Hell In Texas The devil, we're told, in hell was chained, and a thousand years he there remained, and he never complained, nor did he groan, but determined to start a hell of his own where he could torment the souls of men without being chained to a prison pen. So he asked the lord if he had on hand anything left when he made the land. The lord said, 'yes, i had plenty on hand, but i left it down on the Rio Grande. The fact is, old boy, the stuff is so poor, i don't think you can use it in hell anymore.' But the devil went down to look at the truck, and said if it came as a gift, he was stuck; for after examining it careful and well he concluded the place was too dry for hell. So in order to get it off his hands god promised the devil to water the lands. For he had some water, or rather some dregs, a regular cathartic that smelt like bad eggs. Hence the deal was closed and the deed was given, and the lord went back to his place in heaven, and the devil said, 'i have all that is needed to make a good hell.' And thus he succeeded. He began to put thorns on all the trees, and he mixed the sand with millions of fleas, he scattered tarantulas along all the roads, put thorns on the cacti and horns on the toads; he lengthened the horns of the texas steers and put an addition on jack rabbit's ears. He put little devils in the bronco steed and poisoned the feet of the centipede. The rattlesnake bites you, the scorpion stings, the mosquito delights you by buzzing his wings. 154 The sand burrs prevail, so do the ants, and those that sit down need half soles on their pants. The devil then said that throughout the land he'd manage to keep up the devil's own brand, and all would be mavericks unless they bore the marks and scratches and bites by the score. The heat in the summer is a hundred and ten, too hot for the devil and too hot for men. The wild boar roams through the black chaparral, it's a hell of a place he has for hell; the red pepper grows by the bank of the brook, the Mexicans use it in all that they cook. Just dine with a greaser and then you will shout, 'I’ve a hell on the inside as well as without.' ~ Anonymous Americas,

784:The Centurion What is it now? More trouble? Another Jew? I might have known it .These Jews, they buzz around the tail of trouble Like lascivious flies. Do they think we're here Because we love them? Is it their climate That holds us here? Why, think, Marcellus By God, just dream of it. Today in Rome, Less than two thousand thirsty miles away, Fountains and squares and shadowed colonnades, Men with smooth chins and girls that sometimes wash. Well, who is it? ... I see. Another to be taken to the bonehill. They're coming now. Just listen to them! You'd think they had a dozen there at least. My sword, Marcellus. I'll be back to dinner, Unless this fellow`s a reluctant dier Who loves the world too well. Halt! Stop that shouting. Why is he dressed like that? (His robes are purple. On his head A hedge-crown. Where the thorns are driven Berries of blood leap up ... ) 'My orders differ. Remove that crown - at once - return his clothes. Kingship can wait until his throne is ready. Till then, safe conduct. Hold your lines Especially that to the windward: I've no fondness For foreign spittle. Hold them. March... ' 'Halt! Here's the place. Set down the cross. You three attend to it. And remember, Marcus, The blows are struck, the nails are driven For Roman law and Roman order, Not for your private satisfaction. Set to work.' (The grass is bare, sand-coloured : the hill Quivers with heat.) 'What? As you please. Seamless? Then dice for it.' (The sun Is brutal in this land, metallic. It works for death, not life.) 'Well, is it done? Now nail the board above: 'King of the Jews.' That turns the mockery on them. Watch them wince At the superscription. Look, their faces! Hate. Which man is hated most, Myself or him? He'll serve for both: They know their limitations. They know, Greek, Jew or Roman, there is one command, One only. What's his name? He takes it quietly. From Nazareth? I know it well. Who would exchange it For this sad city, and become The food of flies? Marcus, there! Give him some wine: he won't last long.' That strain of wrist, the arm's tension And scarecrow hang of chest. Ah, well, Poor devil, he's got decent eyes. ~ Clive Sansom,

785:When we strike a balance between the challenge of an activity and our skill at performing it, when the rhythm of the work itself feels in sync with our pulse, when we know that what we're doing matters, we can get totally absorbed in our task. That is happiness. The life coach Martha Beck asks new potential clients, "Is there anything you do regularly that makes you forget what time it is?" That forgetting -- that pure absorption -- is what the psychologist Mihaly Csikzentmihalyi calls "flow" or optimal experience. In an interview with Wired magazine, he described flow as "being completely involved in an activity for its own sake. The ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, movement and thought follows inevitably from the previous one, like playing jazz. Your whole being is involved, and you're using your skills to the utmost." In a typical day that teeters between anxiety and boredom, flow experiences are those flashes of intense living -- bright against the dull. These optimal experiences can happen when we're engaged in work paid and unpaid, in sports, in music, in art. The researchers Maria Allison and Margaret Duncan have studied the role of flow in women's lives and looked at factors that contributed to what they call "antiflow." Antiflow was associated with repetitive household tasks, repetitive tasks at work, unchallenging tasks, and work we see as meaningless. But there's an element of chaos when it comes to flow. Even if we're doing meaningful and challenging work, that sense of total absoprtion can elude us. We might get completely and beautifully lost in something today, and, try as we might to re-create the same conditions tomorrow, our task might jsut feel like, well, work. In A Life of One's Own, Marion Milner described her effort to re-create teh conditions of her own recorded moments of happiness, saying, "Often when I felt certain that I had discovered the little mental act which produced the change I walked on air, exulting that I had found the key to my garden of delight and could slip through the door whenever I wished. But most often when I came again the place seemed different, the door overgrown with thorns and my key stuck in the lock. It was as if the first time I had said 'abracadabra' the door had opened, but the next time I must use a different word. (123-124). ~ Ariel Gore,

786:A Pastoral on the wall the dense ivy of executions —ZBIGNIEW HERBERT We shall meet again, in Srinagar, by the gates of the Villa of Peace, our hands blossoming into fists till the soldiers return the keys and disappear. Again we'll enter our last world, the first that vanished in our absence from the broken city. We'll tear our shirts for tourniquets and bind the open thorns, warm the ivy into roses. Quick, by the pomegranate— the bird will say—Humankind can bear everything. No need to stop the ear to stories rumored in branches: We'll hear our gardener's voice, the way we did as children, clear under trees he'd planted: "It's true, my death, at the mosque entrance, in the massacre, when the Call to Prayer opened the floodgates"—Quick, follow the silence— "and dawn rushed into everyone's eyes." Will we follow the horned lark, pry open the back gate into the poplar groves, go past the search post into the cemetery, the dust still uneasy on hurried graves with no names, like all new ones in the city? "It's true" (we'll hear our gardener again). "That bird is silent all winter. Its voice returns in spring, a plaintive cry. That's when it saw the mountain falcon rip open, in mid-air, the blue magpie, then carry it, limp from the talons." Pluck the blood: My words will echo thus at sunset, by the ivy, but to what purpose? In the drawer of the cedar stand, white in the verandah, we'll find letters: When the post offices died, the mailman knew we'd return to answer them. Better if he'd let them speed to death, blacked out by Autumn's Press Trust not like this, taking away our breath, holding it with love's anonymous scripts: "See how your world has cracked. Why aren't you here? Where are you? Come back. Is history deaf there, across the oceans?" Quick, the bird will say. And we'll try the keys, with the first one open the door into the drawing room. Mirror after mirror, textiled by dust, will blind us to our return as we light oil lamps. The glass map of our country, still on the wall, will tear us to lace— We'll go past our ancestors, up the staircase, holding their wills against our hearts. Their wish was we return—forever!—and inherit(Quick, the bird will say) that to which we belong, not like this— to get news of our death after the world's. (for Suvir Kaul) ~ Agha Shahid Ali,

787:The Interrogatio The bright sun is hidden, the night shows its face The night's hair is spread on shoulders of the earth This black dress is preparation for some one's mourning Perhaps the Nature's assemblage for the sun is mourning The sky is casting a spell over the talking lip The night's magician is watching the awakened eye The wind current is submerged in the river of silence However, the tolling bell's sound comes from the distance Heart which in love's turmoil is evading the world Has dragged me here far from the maddening crowd I am the spectator of the spectacle of disappointments I am the associate of those sleeping in solitude's corner O My restlessness! Wait and let me rest awhile And let me shed a few tears at this habitation O those steeped in a swoon, 'Where are you? Tell me something of the land where you live Is that world also one of prevarication? Is that world also one of denizens' struggle? Is Man engulfed by sorrow in that land also? Is Man's heart suppressed and helpless in that land also? Does the moth burn itself in candle's love in that land also? Does the tale of flower and nightingale exist in that garden also? In this world a single hemistich perturbs the heart Does there also the warmth of verse soften the heart? This world's relations and alliances life's woes are Are similar sharp thorns present in that garden also? 52 The daily bread and a million calamities this world has Does the soul freedom from anxieties in that world has? Are the thunder, the farmer, the harvest there also? Are the caravan and the robber's fear there also? Do birds collect bits of straw for nests there also? Is the search for bricks and clay for house there also? Are the humans unaware of their reality there also? 1 Are they after nations' and customs' discrimination there also Does garden not cry at the nightingale's wail there also? Like this world is there no sympathy in that world also? Does the Paradise a garden or a restful mansion constitute? Or does the Eternal Beauty's Unveiled Face it constitute? 2 Does hell a method of burning away sins constitute? Or it in flames of fire a way of discipline constitute? Has walking given way to speedy flying in that world? What is the secret of what is called death by denizens of this world? Life eases the heart's restlessness in this world Is human knowledge also restricted in that world? Does the separated heart get satisfaction by sight there also? Are 'Lan Tar ~ Allama Muhammad Iqbal,

788:If a season like the Great Rebellion ever came to him again, he feared, it could never be in that same personal, random array of picaresque acts he was to recall and celebrate in later years at best furious and nostalgic; but rather with a logic that chilled the comfortable perversity of the heart, that substituted capability for character, deliberate scheme for political epiphany (so incomparably African); and for Sarah, the sjambok, the dances of death between Warmbad and Keetmanshoop, the taut haunches of his Firelily, the black corpse impaled on a thorn tree in a river swollen with sudden rain, for these the dearest canvases in his soul's gallery, it was to substitute the bleak, abstracted and for him rather meaningless hanging on which he now turned his back, but which was to backdrop his retreat until he reached the Other Wall, the engineering design for a world he knew with numb leeriness nothing could now keep from becoming reality, a world whose full despair he, at the vantage of eighteen years later, couldn't even find adequate parables for, but a design whose first fumbling sketches he thought must have been done the year after Jacob Marengo died, on that terrible coast, where the beach between Luderitzbucht and the cemetery was actually littered each morning with a score of identical female corpses, an agglomeration no more substantial-looking than seaweed against the unhealthy yellow sand; where the soul's passage was more a mass migration across that choppy fetch of Atlantic the wind never left alone, from an island of low cloud, like an anchored prison ship, to simple integration with the unimaginable mass of their continent; where the single line of track still edged toward a Keetmanshoop that could in no conceivable iconology be any part of the Kingdom of Death; where, finally, humanity was reduced, out of a necessity which in his loonier moments he could almost believe was only Deutsch-Sudwestafrika's (actually he knew better), out of a confrontation the young of one's contemporaries, God help them, had yet to make, humanity was reduced to a nervous, disquieted, forever inadequate but indissoluble Popular Front against deceptively unpolitical and apparently minor enemies, enemies that would be with him to the grave: a sun with no shape, a beach alien as the moon's antarctic, restless concubines in barbed wire, salt mists, alkaline earth, the Benguela Current that would never cease bringing sand to raise the harbor floor, the inertia of rock, the frailty of flesh, the structural unreliability of thorns; the unheard whimper of a dying woman; the frightening but necessary cry of the strand wolf in the fog. ~ Thomas Pynchon,

789:The Crown Of Thorns “And unto Adam He said . . . . cursed is the ground for thy sake. Thorns . . . . shall it bring forth.” “And the soldiers platted a crown of thorns, and put it on His head.” In bitterest sorrow did the ground bring forth Its fatal seed. Thine eyes beheld the birth— Beheld the travail of accursèd earth; E'en then, O Lord! in greater love than wrath! Thou sawest the sin that none could gather out— The vineyard cover'd with the thorn and briar; Thou sawest the fair land ready for the fire— And still Thy pity compass'd it about. Thou, O most merciful! didst spare the brand; Thou didst redeem the Paradise of God; The thorns were rooted from the stubborn sod, In pain and toil, by Thine own blessèd hand. How was our path to heaven o'ergrown with sin— Bramble, and thistle, and the poisonous weed! Though hearts should break, and patient feet should bleed, And strive and struggle, none could walk therein. And Thou didst call us when we went astray— Didst make our high road straight for evermore; And, for our guidance, passèd on before, Leaving Thy shining footprints in the way. Still do the wild thorns hedge us round about; Still grow the thistles from the ancient stock; Still trails the bramble on the blasted rock— But we can dig, and Thou wilt pull them out. Ay, we can work—oh, help us in the strife! Labour is sweet, for Thou dost share it now. And we shall eat, in sweat of furrow'd brow, Not earthly food, but Thine own Bread of Life. 182 And there are thorns of suffering left behind— Sorrow and loss—that weigh our courage down; But, ah! we know Thy sacramental crown Was made of sin and sorrow, intertwined. Give us of Thy sweet patience, Lord, we pray. We would not spurn them with rebellious kicks, Nor fret and strive, for Thou canst feel the pricks; We too would wear them as a crown for aye. We would put on Thy likeness—we, the least And most unworthy. Ay, each piercing thorn, In Thy name patiently and meekly worn, Shall bear a blossom for the bridal feast. Look down, O Brother with the yearning eyes! Behold us kneeling at Thy bitter cross! Grant us a share in all Thine earthly loss, That we may share Thy gain in Paradise. O weary Head! we see Thee drooping now Beneath that diadem of mortal pain: We see Thee sprinkled with the scarlet stain;— Drop down the chrism on our polluted brow! O sacred Head!—pale, beautiful, benign— On our heads be Thy precious blood, we cry! Lo, the destroying angel, passing by, Shall spare to smite us—reverencing the sign. ~ Ada Cambridge,

790:In Memoriam “He asked life of thee, and thou gavest him a long life, even for ever and ever.” Life—length of days—the time to work and strive In his Lord's vineyard; to bring heavenly light Into the drear, dark places of the earth, And make them fair and fruitful in His sight. Life—it seem'd all so bright and beautiful once! It lay spread out before his kindling eyes, A land of sunny hills, in white mist veil'd, Of sweet green valleys under summer skies. Such tender light and tender shadows there! No dazzling blaze, no savage blots of gloom, No keen-cut outline of the barren cliff, No glaring waste,—but all one gentle bloom Of happy, innocent hope,—a morning tint Of pearly grey and gold, with just a shade Of bright cloud-colour, giving life to it,— He saw not then the havoc death had made. But soon the white mist melted in the heat Of noonday, and the wasted fields lay bare— Vineyard of Eden—like a bright face, scarred With sin and shame and weariness and care. And his vague aspiration took a shape. “Grant me, dear Lord, if it seem good to Thee, To labour here, with manhood's utter strength,— O Lord, good Lord, intrust this work to me! “Let me have time to toil—a long, long day— To dig and delve and root out wasteful weeds, To cut down briars and thorns, and help to plough Furrows where angels may sow heavenly seeds. “Give me to foster, with my faith and love, Frail, early flowers, that fear to droop and fade! 119 Father, I will not shrink for bleeding hands, For heat nor cold—I do not feel afraid!” His voice was heard—his will accepted. God Gave deep and true fulfilment to his prayer,— Life—life eternal, which should nevermore The taint of death, or sin, or sorrow bear! Oh pray, ye blind ones, as the beggar pray'd When He of Nazareth pass'd by! Oh pray With simple faith and worship,—fear ye not God's gracious ear will deafly turn away. Ye know He bids us to tell out our wants, Knowing them all; give up to Him your will, And trust Him—trust Him. In his wondrous love He deigns the lowliest longing to fulfil. Ay, and with that fulfilment which we ne'er Shall grasp or fathom—till we come to see Our strange, mysterious human life unveil'd In the clear daylight of eternity. The beggar ask'd for sight—Christ answer'd him, For his faith's sake, and gave him sight indeed. Just so his silent hands and darken'd eyes Were lifted once, for grace of “life” to plead. And God fulfilled his prayer as utterly! He gave him life—the life of saints above, Beyond all earthly dreaming sweet and glad— An endless life in His eternal love! ~ Ada Cambridge,

791:RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER: Why then I do but dream on sovereignty, Like one that stands upon a promontory And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, Saying, he'll lade it dry to have his way: So do I wish the crown, being so far off, And so I chide the means that keeps me from it, And so, I say, I'll cut the causes off, Flattering me with impossibilities, My eye's too quick, my hear o'erweens too much, Unless my hand and strength could equal them. Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard; What other pleasure can the world afford? I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap, And deck my body in gay ornaments, And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. O miserable thought! and more unlikely Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns! Why, love forswore me in my mother's womb; And for I should not deal in her soft laws, She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe, To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub, To make an envious mountain on my back, Where sits deformity to mock my body; To shape my legs of an unequal size, To disproportion me in every part, Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp That carries no impression like the dam. And am I then a man to be belov'd? O monstrous fault, to harbor such a thought! Then since this earth affords no joy to me But to command, to check, to o'erbear such As are of better person than myself, I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown, And whiles I live, t' account this world but hell, Until my misshap'd trunk that bears this head Be round impaled with a glorious crown. And yet I know not how to get the crown, For many lives stand between me and home; And I - like one lost in a thorny wood, That rents the thorns, and is rent with the thorns, Seeking a way, and straying from the way, Not knowing how to find the open air, But toiling desperately to find it out - Torment myself to catch the English crown; And from that torment I will free myself, Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. Why, I can smile, and murther whiles I smile, And cry "Content" to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face to all occasions. I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall, I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk, I'll play the orator as well as Nestor, Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, And like a Simon, take another Troy. I can add colors to the chameleon, Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, And set the murtherous Machevil to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down. ~ William Shakespeare,

792:A Walk In The Shrubbery To the Cistus or Rock Rose, a beautiful plant, whose flowers expand, and fall off twice in twenty-four hours. THE Florists, who have fondly watch'd, Some curious bulb from hour to hour, And, to ideal charms attach'd, Derive their glory from a flower; Or they, who lose in crouded rooms, Spring's tepid suns and balmy air, And value Flora's fairest blooms, But in proportion as they're rare; Feel not the pensive pleasures known To him, who, thro' the morning mist, Explores the bowery shrubs new blown, A moralizing Botanist.­ He marks, with colours how profuse Some are design'd to please the eye; While beauty some combine with use, In admirable harmony. The fruit buds, shadow'd red and white, Amid young leaves of April hue; Convey sensations of delight, And promise fruits autumnal too: And, while the Thrush his home and food, Hails, as the flowering thorns unfold, And from its trunk of ebon wood, Rears Cytisus its floating gold; The Lilac, whose tall head discloses Groups of such bright empurpled shade, And snow-globes form'd of elfin roses, Seem for exclusive beauty made: Such too art thou; when light anew Above the eastern hill is seen, Thy buds, as fearful of the dew, Still wear their sheltering veil of green. But in the next more genial hour Thy tender rose-shaped cups unfold, 11 And soon appears the perfect flower, With ruby spots and threads of gold. That short and fleeting hour gone by, And even the slightest breath of air, Scarce heard among thy leaves to sigh, Or little bird that flutters there; Shakes off thy petals thin and frail, And soon, like half-congealing snow, The sport of every wandering gale, They strew the humid turf below. Yet tho' thy gauzy bells fall fast, Long ere appears the evening crescent; Another bloom succeeds the last, As lovely and as evanescent. Not so the poet's favourite Rose, She blooms beyond a second day, And even some later beauty shews­ Some charm still lingering in decay. Thus those, who thro' life's path have pass'd, A path how seldom strewn with flowers ! May have met Friendships formed to last Beyond the noonday's golden hours. While quickly formed, dissolv'd as soon, Some warm attachments I have known Just flourish for an hour at noon, But leave no trace when overblown. Minds that form these, with ardent zeal Their new connexions fondly cherish, And for a moment keenly feel Affection, doomed as soon to perish; Incapable of Friendship long, Awake to every new impression, Old friends, becoming ci-devant ! Are still replaced by a Succession. ~ Charlotte Smith,

793:Teapots And Quails Teapots and Quails, Snuffers and Snails, Set him a sailing and see how he sails! .. Mitres and Beams, Thimbles and Creams, Set him a screaming and hark! how he screams! .. Houses and Kings, Whiskers and Swings, Set him a stinging and see how he stings! .. Ribands and Pigs, Helmets and Figs, Set him a jigging and see how he jigs! .. Rainbows and Knives, Muscles and Hives, Set him a driving and see how he drives! .. Tadpoles and Tops, Teacups and Mops, Set him a hopping and see how he hops! .. Herons and Sweeps, Turbans and Sheeps, Set him a weeping and see how he weeps! Lobsters and Owls, Scissors and Fowls, Set him a howling and hark how he howls! .. 150 Eagles and Pears, Slippers and Bears, Set him a staring and see how he stares! .. Sofas and Bees, Camels and Keys, Set him a sneezing and see how he'll sneeze! .. Wafers and Bears, Ladders and Squares, Set him a staring and see how he stares! .. Cutlets and Eyes, Swallows and Pies, Set it a flying and see how it flies! .. Thistles and Moles, Crumpets and Soles, Set it a rolling and see how it rolls! .. Tea urns and Pews, Muscles and Jews, Set him a mewing and hear how he mews! Watches and Oaks, Custards and Cloaks, Set him a poking and see how he pokes! .. Bonnets and Legs, Steamboats and Eggs, Set him a begging and see how he begs! .. Volumes and Pigs, Razors and Figs, Set him a jigging 151 and see how he jigs! .. Hurdles and Mumps, Poodles and Pumps, Set it a jumping and see how he jumps! .. Pancakes and Fins, Roses and Pins, Set him a grinning and see how he grins! .. Gruel and Prawns, Bracelets and Thorns, Set him a yawning and see how he yawns! .. Chimnies and Wings, Sailors and Rings, Set him a singing, and hark how he sings! Trumpets and Guns, Beetles and Buns, Set him a running and see how he runs! .. Saucers and Tops, Lobsters and Mops, Set it a hopping and see how it hops! .. Puddings and Beams, Cobwebs and Creams, Set him a screaming and hear how he screams! .. Rainbows and Wives, Puppies and Hives, Set him a driving and see how he drives! .. Houses and Kings, 152 Oysters and Rings, Set him a singing and see how he sings! .. Scissors and Fowls, Filberts and Owls, Set him a howling and see how he howls! .. Blackbirds and Ferns, Spiders and Churns, Set it a turning and see how it turns! ~ Edward Lear,

794:Jab Tun Aaya Jagat Mein, Log Hanse Tu Roye Aise Karni Na Kari, Pache Hanse Sab Koye [When you were born in this world Everyone laughed while you cried Conduct NOT yourself in manner such That they laugh when you are gone] ** Kabir Man Nirmal Bhaya, Jaise Ganga Neer Pache Pache Har Phire, Kahat Kabir Kabir [Kabir's mind got cleansed like the holy Ganges water Now everyone follows, saying Kabir Kabir] ** Gur Dhobi Sikh Kapda, Saboo Sirjan Har Surti Sila Pur Dhoiye, Nikse Jyoti Apaar [Guru the washer man, disciple is the cloth The name of God liken to the soap Wash the mind on foundation firm To realize the glow of Truth] ** Jeevat Samjhe Jeevat Bujhe, Jeevat He Karo Aas Jeevat Karam Ki Fansi Na Kaati, Mue Mukti Ki Aas [Alive one sees, alive one knows Thus crave for salvation when full of life Alive you did not cut the noose of binding actions Hoping liberation with death!] ** Akath Kahani Prem Ki, Kutch Kahi Na Jaye Goonge Keri Sarkara, Baithe Muskae [Inexpressible is the story of Love It cannot be revealed by words Like the dumb eating sweet-meat Only smiles, the sweetness he cannot tell] ** Chinta Aisee Dakini, Kat Kaleja Khaye Vaid Bichara Kya Kare, Kahan Tak Dawa Lagaye [Worry is the bandit that eats into one's heart What the doctor can do, what remedy to impart?] ** Kabira Garv Na Keejiye, Uncha Dekh Aavaas Kaal Paron Bhuin Letna, Ooper Jamsi Ghaas [Says Kabir Don't be so proud and vain Looking at your high mansion Death makes one lie on bare land And grass will grow thereon] ** {2}Kabira Garv Na Keejiye, Kaal Gahe Kar Kes Na Jaane Kit Mare Hai, Kya Des Kya Pardesh [Says Kabir Don't be so proud and vain The clutches of Time are dark Who knows where shall it kill Whether at home or abroad] ** Kabira Kiya Kutch Na Hote Hai, Ankiya Sab Hoye Jo Kiya Kutch Hote Hai, Karta Aur Koye [Says Kabir By my doing nothing happens What I don't does come to pass If anything happens as if my doing Then truly it is done by someone else] ** Jyon Naino Mein Putli, Tyon Maalik Ghat Mahin Moorakh Log Na Janhin, Baahar Dhudhan Jahin [Like the pupil in the eyes The Lord resides inside Ignorant do not know this fact They search Him outside] ** Pehle Agan Birha Ki, Pachhe Prem Ki Pyas Kahe Kabir Tub Janiye, Naam Milan Ki Aaas [First the pangs of separation Next grows the thirst for Love Says Kabir then only hope The union to materialize] ** Jo toko kaata boien tahi boin tu phool, tooko phool ke phool hain, vaako hain tirshul [Lay flowers in the path of those who lay thorns in yours, For you those flowers are flowers, but for them the flowers are tridents] ** Bada hua to kya hua jaise ped khajoor, Panthi ko chaya nahi, fal lage ati door. [What is the use of being big and rich like a palm tree, it doesn't provide shade to travellers and it's fruit is too far to eat] ~ Kabir, Dohas II (with translation) ,

795:Transcendental generosity is generally misunderstood in the study of the Buddhist scriptures as meaning being kind to someone who is lower than you.  Someone has this pain and suffering and you are in a superior position and can save them—which is a very simple-minded way of looking down on someone.  But in the case of the bodhisattva, generosity is not so callous.  It is something very strong and powerful; it is communication.   Communication must transcend irritation, otherwise it will be like trying to make a comfortable bed in a briar patch.  The penetrating qualities of external color, energy, and light will come toward us, penetrating our attempts to communicate like a thorn pricking our skin.  We will wish to subdue this intense irritation and our communication will be blocked.   Communication must be radiation and receiving and exchange.  Whenever irritation is involved, then we are not able to see properly and fully and clearly the spacious quality of that which is coming toward us, that which is presenting itself as communication.  The external world is immediately rejected by our irritation which says, “no, no, this irritates me, go away.”  Such an attitude is the complete opposite of transcendental generosity.   So the bodhisattva must experience the complete communication of generosity, transcending irritation and self-defensiveness.  Otherwise, when thorns threaten to prick us, we feel that we are being attacked, that we must defend ourselves.  We run away from the tremendous opportunity for communication that has been given to us, and we have not been brave enough even to look to the other shore of the river.  We are looking back and trying to run away.   Generosity is a willingness to give, to open without philosophical or pious or religious motives, just simply doing what is required at any moment in any situation, not being afraid to receive anything.  Opening could take place in the middle of a highway.  We are not afraid that smog and dust or people’s hatreds and passions will overwhelm us; we simply open, completely surrender, give.  This means that we do not judge, do not evaluate.  If we attempt to judge or evaluate our experience, if we try to decide to what extent we should open, to what extent we should remain closed, the openness will have no meaning at all and the idea of paramita, of transcendental generosity, will be in vain.  Our action will not transcend anything, will cease to be the act of a bodhisattva.   The whole implication of the idea of transcendence is that we see through the limited notions, the limited conceptions, the warfare mentality of this as opposed to that. Generally, when we look at an object, we do not allow ourselves to see it properly.  Automatically we see our version of the object instead of actually seeing the object as it is.  Then we are quite satisfied, because we have manufactured or own version of the thing within ourselves.   Then we comment on it, we judge, we take or reject; but there is on real communication going on at all.   Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism, p.167, Chogyam Trungpa Rimpoche ~ Ch gyam Trungpa,

796:The Vain Question Why should we court the storms that rave and rend, Safe at our household hearth? Why, starved and naked, without home or friend, Unknowing whence we came or where we wend, Follow from no beginning to no end An uncrowned martyr's path? Is it worth while to waste our all in vain? To seek, and not to know? To strive for something we can never gain, To labour blindly for a wage of pain, And crack our heartstrings with the stress and strain, And reap no field we sow? What does it matter whether love or hate, Or praise or blame, be theirs Who pass like shadows, with no time to wait For understanding of the ways of fate, Which makes the hopeless desert blossom late, And kills good wheat with tares? Why do we choose to suffer, when we might Lie down to sleep and dream? Is praise for men who try to do the right? Is blame for him who shirks the deadly fight? And whose the friendship that is heart's delight? And whose the love supreme? Wide do we set our sanctuary door That fairest guest to greet, And find too late, when we have shown our store, The sacred places rudely trampled o'er, Bereaved, profaned, and soiled for evermore With tread of vulgar feet. And nothing left to solace us but this, At such a frightful cost A taste, a glimpse, the memory of a kiss; Only a sense of what diviner bliss, 269 That might have been, we have contrived to miss; Only what love has lost. And brother-bond - the loyal comradeship That comes to every call What worth the smiling eye, the warm hand-grip, The benediction of the kindly lip? Sickness, old age or poverty can strip The value from them all. And faith, embalmed in immemorial creed Once our supreme support, Our staff and beacon to uphold and lead A light extinguished and a broken reed! And where, O where, in bitter time of need, Shall substitute be sought? Wherefore this anguish of desire to see That which concerns us not The evolution of the life to be, The distant course, the final destiny Of worlds and men - the ages wherein we Shall have no part or lot? Why not shut eyes of spirit and of brain That can torment us thus? Why not take something to assuage the pain, And shut the doors and go to sleep again? The Search may be successful or in vain, What matters it to us? Is it worth while, when house and home are here, And we can dwell at ease, To go forth, lonely, and in mortal fear, To travel roads that lead not anywhere, As bare of lamp or signpost, far or near, And full of thorns, as these? To leave the Good whereof we are possest, To seek, in senseless grief, For some divine but ever unknown Best, And see no goal and find no place of rest - 270 Is it worth while, on such a fruitless quest To waste a life so brief? We must not ask - we must not ask again. We have to wait and see. Press on, poor soul, along the path of pain That is the one thing absolutely plain. The last assessment of the loss and gain Is not a task for thee. ~ Ada Cambridge,

797:Commala-come-come There’s a young man with a gun. Young man lost his honey When she took it on the run. Commala-come-one! She took it on the run! Left her baby lonely But he baby ain’t done. Commala-come-coo The wind’ll blow ya through. Ya gotta go where ka’s wind blows ya Cause there’s nothin else to do. Commala-come-two! Nothin else to do! Gotta go where ka’s wind blows ya Cause there’s nothin else to do. Commala-come-key Can you tell me what ya see? Is it ghosts or just the mirror That makes ya wanna flee? Commala-come-three! I beg ya, tell me! Is it ghosts or just your darker self That makes ya wanna flee? Commala-come-ko Whatcha doin at my do’? If ya doan tell me now, my friend I’ll lay ya on de flo’. Commala-come-fo’! I can lay ya low! The things I’ve do to such as you You never wanna know. Commala-gin-jive Ain’t it grand to be alive? To look out on Discordia When the Demon Moon arrives. Commala-come-five! Even when the shadows rise! To see the world and walk the world Makes ya glad to be alive. Commala-mox-nix! You’re in a nasty fix! To take a hand in traitor’s glove Is to grasp a sheaf of sticks! Commala-come-six! Nothing there but thorns and sticks! When your find your hand in traitor’s glove You’re in a nasty fix. Commala-loaf-leaven! They go to hell or up to heaven! The the guns are shot and the fires hot, You got to poke em in the oven. Commala-come-seven! Salt and yow’ for leaven! Heat em up and knock em down And poke em in the oven. Commala-ka-kate You’re in the hands of fate. No matter if it’s real or not, The hour groweth late. Commala-come-eight! The hour groweth late! No matter what shade ya cast You’re in the hands of fate. Commala-me-mine You have to walk the line. When you finally get the thing you need It makes you feel so fine. Commala-come-nine! It makes ya feel fine! But if you’d have the thing you need You have to walk the line. Commala-come-ken It’s the other one again. You may know her name and face But that don’t make her your friend. Commala-come-ten! She is not your friend! If you let her get too close She’ll cut you up again! Commala-come-call We hail the one who made us all, Who made the men and made the maids, Who made the great and small. Commala-come-call! He made us great and small! And yet how great the hand of fate That rules us one and all. Commala-come-ki, There’s a time to live and one to die. With your back against the final wall Ya gotta let the bullets fly. Commala-come-ki! Let the bullets fly! Don’t ‘ee mourn for me, my lads When it comes my day to die. Commala-come-kass! The child has come at last! Sing your song, O sing it well, The child has come to pass. Commala-come-kass, The worst has come to pass. The Tower trembles on its ground; The child has come at last. Commala-come-come, The battle’s now begun! And all the foes of men and rose Rise with the setting sun. ~ Stephen King,

798:When you teach someone your true name, you place everything you are in their hands.” “I know, but I may never have the chance again. This is the only thing I have to give, and I would give it to you.” “Eragon, what you are proposing…It is the most precious thing one person can give another.” “I know.” A shiver ran through Arya, and then she seemed to withdraw within herself. After a time, she said, “No one has ever offered me such a gift before…I’m honored by your trust, Eragon, and I understand how much this means to you, but no, I must decline. It would be wrong for you to do this and wrong for me to accept just because tomorrow we may be killed or enslaved. Danger is no reason to act foolishly, no matter how great our peril.” Eragon inclined his head. Her reasons were good reasons, and he would respect her choice. “Very well, as you wish,” he said. “Thank you, Eragon.” A moment passed. Then he said, “Have you ever told anyone your true name?” “No.” “Not even your mother?” Her mouth twisted. “No.” “Do you know what it is?” “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?” He half shrugged. “I didn’t. I just wasn’t sure.” Silence came between them. Then, “When…how did you learn your true name?” Arya was quiet for so long, he began to think that she would refuse to answer. Then she took a breath and said, “It was a number of years after I left Du Weldenvarden, when I finally had become accustomed to my role among the Varden and the dwarves. Faolin and my other companions were away, and I had a great deal of time to myself. I spent most of it exploring Tronjheim, wandering in the empty reaches of the city-mountain, where others rarely tread. Tronjheim is bigger than most realize, and there are many strange things within it: rooms, people, creatures, forgotten artifacts…As I wandered, I thought, and I came to know myself better than ever I had before. One day I discovered a room somewhere high in Tronjheim--I doubt I could locate it again, even if I tried. A beam of sunlight seemed to pour into the room, though the ceiling was solid, and in the center of the room was a pedestal, and upon the pedestal was growing a single flower. I do not know what kind of flower it was; I have never seen its like before or since. The petals were purple, but the center of the blossom was like a drop of blood. There were thorns upon the stem, and the flower exuded the most wonderful scent and seemed to hum with a music all its own. It was such an amazing and unlikely thing to find, I stayed in the room, staring at the flower for longer than I can remember, and it was then and there that I was finally able to put words to who I was and who I am.” “I would like to see that flower someday.” “Perhaps you will.” Arya glanced toward the Varden’s camp. “I should go. There is much yet to be done.” He nodded. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.” “Tomorrow.” Arya began to walk away. After a few steps, she paused and looked back. “I’m glad that Saphira chose you as her Rider, Eragon. And I’m proud to have fought alongside you. You have become more than any of us dared hope. Whatever happens tomorrow, know that.” Then she resumed her stride, and soon she disappeared around the curve of the hill, leaving him alone with Saphira and the Eldunarí. ~ Christopher Paolini,

799:I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept. Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions? If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds' tents. I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh's chariots. Thy cheeks are comely with rows of jewels, thy neck with chains of gold. We will make thee borders of gold with studs of silver. While the king sitteth at his table, my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof. A bundle of myrrh is my wellbeloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts. My beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphire in the vineyards of Engedi. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes. Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir. ... I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love. His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me. I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please. The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills. My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, showing himself through the lattice. My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely. Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes. My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether. -- Anon. (Hebrew, 6th century B.C.) ~ Anonymous, The Song of Songs ,

800:Richborough Castle THESE three grey walls are still stout and strong, Though the fourth wide wall has crumbled away Where the sea swept by when the land was young, And the great waves thundered along the bay, Under the sailing seagull's feather, Wildly white in the stormy weather, And, murmuring ever a restless song, Shone, crumpled green, on a sunny day. Through eighteen hundred years of our time, With their storms and sieges, these walls have stood, Till the cliff that the waves once strove to climb Is left in a meadow solitude; And now no sea-gulls' nests are there, But ash-trees and thorns make the cliff-side fair, And the green of the leaves, and the white of the lime, And the red of the berries is sweet and good. Over the walls, whence eagle-eyed The Romans looked for the coming foes, Swift keen-tongued snakes now curl and glide Where the heavy weight of the ivy grows. Oh, hand that builded, oh, scheming brain, So long made one with the dust again, Your old cement and your walls abide, But stronger than they are the ivy and rose! How the whole dear world is golden and green With the marshy meadows, the dimpled wheat, The hot strong sunshine, the ivy's sheen, And the high white lights on the shiny beet. See the far blue line--the retreating sea! It is good to be here, it is good to be; Whatever life is, or whatever has been, To be now--to be here, is nothing but sweet! 211 There's an underground passage here, they say, Here is the entrance with green set round; You must stoop your head in this low-roofed way, Leave day, light candles--pass underground. Here, under the fields, it is damp and cold, And whatever secret the place may hold It has held it closely for many a day, And will hold it for more in its hush profound. Down here, last year, so the gossips tell, Some archæological learned bore Went chipping with hammer and chisel as well To chip his way to the secret's core-Shut away from the sun and the browning wheat, The whitening barley, the purple beet-In the dark with the damp, the earthy smell, While the days burned through that return no more. Oh, fool! not to see that the green of the trees, The blue of the sky and the blue of the sea, The placid pasture, the baby breeze, And the outspread meadows' tranquillity, With eyes to see them, are more than worth The whole of the secrets of musty earth. What secret outweighs such delights as these, Or pays one lost moment's felicity? Are we wise, we two, when we try to pierce To the heart of things, to our own hearts' heart, To learn the secret springs of the years, And what that is of which we are part? Free will--the Absolute--matter--mind-Ah, we came like the wind and we go like the wind! Would solving life's mysteries dry our tears, Or absolute knowledge heal souls that smart? And meantime one might lose what I'd die to keep-- 212 The power to delight in a day like this, In the brown wings' whir, and the faint-bell'd sheep, In the million things that the millions miss. And, think, had it happened one's in-turned eyes Had missed the gateway of Paradise, Had one questioned of dreams till one fell asleep, Having never dreamed, oh, my Dream, of your kiss! ~ Edith Nesbit,

801:Unredeemed I saw the Christ down from His cross, A tragic man lean-limbed and tall, But weighed with suffering and loss. His back was to a broken wall, And out upon the tameless world Was fixed His gaze His piercing eye Beheld the towns to ruin hurled, And saw the storm of death pass by. Two thousand years it was since first He offered to the race of men His sovran boon, As one accurst They nailed Him to the jibbet then, And while they mocked Him for their mirth He smiled, and from the hill of pain To all the hating tribes of earth Held forth His wondrous gift again. To-day the thorns were on His brow, His grief was deeper than before. From ravaged field and city now Arose the screams and reek of war. The black smoke parted. Through the rift God's sun fell on the b1oody lands. Christ wept, for still His priceless gift He held within His wounded hands. Xxxx The Living Picture He rode along one splendid noon, When all the hills were lit with Spring, And through the bushland throbbed a croon Of every living, hopeful thing. Between his teeth a rose he bore As white as milk, and passing there He tossed it with a laugh. I wore It as it fell among my hair. 174 No day a-drip with golden rain, No heat with drench of wattle scent Can touch the heart of me again But with that young, sweet wonder blent. We wed upon a gusty day, When baffled fury whipped the sea; And now I love the swift, wet play Of wind and rain besetting me. I took white roses in my hand, A white rose on my forehead shone, For we had come to understand White roses bloomed for us alone. When scarce a year had gone he sped To fight the wars. With eyes grown grim He kissed my lips, and whispering said: “The world we must keep sweet for him!” He wrote of war, the soldier's life. “'Tis hard, my dearest, but be brave. I did not make my love my wife To be the mother of a slave!” My babe was born a boy. He had His father's eyes, his smile, his hair, And, oh, my soul was brimming glad— It seemed his father's self was there! But now came one who bade me still In holy Heaven put my trust. They'd laid my love beneath the hill, And sealed his eyes with timeless dust. Against my breast the babe I drew, With strength from him to stay my fears. I fought my fight the long days through; He laughed and dabbled in my tears. From my poor heart, at which it fed With tiger teeth, I thrust despair, 175 And faced a world with shadow spread And only echoes in the air. The winter waned. One eve I went, Led by a kindly hand to see In moving scenes the churches rent, The tumbled hill, the blasted lee. Of soldiers resting by the road, Who smoked and drowsed, a muddy rout, One sprang alert, and forward strode, With eager eyes to seek us out. His fingers held a rose. He threw The flower, and waved his cap. In me A frenzy of assurance grew, For, O dear God, 'twas he! 'twas he! I called aloud. Aloft my child I held, and nearer yet he came; And when he understood and smiled, My baby lisped his father's name. They say I fell like something dead, But when I woke to morning's glow My boy sat by me on the bed, And in his hand a rose of snow! ~ Edward George Dyson,

802:Ode to the West Wind I O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear! II Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky’s commotion, Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine aëry surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith’s height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lull’d by the coil of his crystàlline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave’s intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seem’d a vision; I would ne’er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chain’d and bow’d One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like wither’d leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

803:When I close my eyes to see, to hear, to smell, to touch a country I have known, I feel my body shake and fill with joy as if a beloved person had come near me. A rabbi was once asked the following question: ‘When you say that the Jews should return to Palestine, you mean, surely, the heavenly, the immaterial, the spiritual Palestine, our true homeland?’ The rabbi jabbed his staff into the ground in wrath and shouted, ‘No! I want the Palestine down here, the one you can touch with your hands, with its stones, its thorns and its mud!’ Neither am I nourished by fleshless, abstract memories. If I expected my mind to distill from a turbid host of bodily joys and bitternesses an immaterial, crystal-clear thought, I would die of hunger. When I close my eyes in order to enjoy a country again, my five senses, the five mouth-filled tentacles of my body, pounce upon it and bring it to me. Colors, fruits, women. The smells of orchards, of filthy narrow alleys, of armpits. Endless snows with blue, glittering reflections. Scorching, wavy deserts of sand shimmering under the hot sun. Tears, cries, songs, distant bells of mules, camels or troikas. The acrid, nauseating stench of some Mongolian cities will never leave my nostrils. And I will eternally hold in my hands – eternally, that is, until my hands rot – the melons of Bukhara, the watermelons of the Volga, the cool, dainty hand of a Japanese girl… For a time, in my early youth, I struggled to nourish my famished soul by feeding it with abstract concepts. I said that my body was a slave and that its duty was to gather raw material and bring it to the orchard of the mind to flower and bear fruit and become ideas. The more fleshless, odorless, soundless the world was that filtered into me, the more I felt I was ascending the highest peak of human endeavor. And I rejoiced. And Buddha came to be my greatest god, whom I loved and revered as an example. Deny your five senses. Empty your guts. Love nothing, hate nothing, desire nothing, hope for nothing. Breathe out and the world will be extinguished. But one night I had a dream. A hunger, a thirst, the influence of a barbarous race that had not yet become tired of the world had been secretly working within me. My mind pretended to be tired. You felt it had known everything, had become satiated, and was now smiling ironically at the cries of my peasant heart. But my guts – praised be God! – were full of blood and mud and craving. And one night I had a dream. I saw two lips without a face – large, scimitar-shaped woman’s lips. They moved. I heard a voice ask, ‘Who if your God?’ Unhesitatingly I answered, ‘Buddha!’ But the lips moved again and said: ‘No, Epaphus.’ I sprang up out of my sleep. Suddenly a great sense of joy and certainty flooded my heart. What I had been unable to find in the noisy, temptation-filled, confused world of wakefulness I had found now in the primeval, motherly embrace of the night. Since that night I have not strayed. I follow my own path and try to make up for the years of my youth that were lost in the worship of fleshless gods, alien to me and my race. Now I transubstantiate the abstract concepts into flesh and am nourished. I have learned that Epaphus, the god of touch, is my god. All the countries I have known since then I have known with my sense of touch. I feel my memories tingling, not in my head but in my fingertips and my whole skin. And as I bring back Japan to my mind, my hands tremble as if they were touching the breast of a beloved woman. ~ Nikos Kazantzakis,

804:An Address To The Deity God of my life! and author of my days! Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise; And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung. Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore. Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere Are equal all,—for all are nothing here. All nature faints beneath the mighty name, Which nature's works though all their parts proclaim. I feel that name my inmost thoughts controul, And breathe an awful stillness through my soul; As by a charm, the waves of grief subside; Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide: At thy felt presence all emotions cease, And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace, Till every worldly thought within me dies, And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes; Till all my sense is lost in infinite, And one vast object fills my aching sight. But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke; My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke; With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, And mingles with the dross of earth again. But he, our gracious Master, kind as just, Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined; Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, And fans the smoking flax into a flame. His ears are open to the softest cry, His grace descends to meet the lifted eye; He reads the language of a silent tear, And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give; Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live: 23 From each terrestrial bondage set me free; Still every wish that centres not in thee; Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, And point my path to everlasting peace. If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads By living waters, and through flowery meads, When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, O teach me to elude each latent snare, And whisper to my sliding heart—Beware! With caution let me hear the syren's voice, And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice. If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way, Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And with strong confidence lay hold on thee; With equal eye my various lot receive, Resigned to die, or resolute to live; Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is seen in all, and all in God. I read his awful name, emblazoned high With golden letters on the illumined sky; Nor less the mystic characters I see Wrought in each flower, inscribed in every tree; In every leaf that trembles to the breeze I hear the voice of God among the trees; With thee in shady solitudes I walk, With thee in busy crowded cities talk; In every creature own thy forming power, In each event thy providence adore. Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, Thy precepts guide me, and thy fears controul: Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms, Secure within the temple of thine arms; From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, And feel myself omnipotent in thee. Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, 24 And earth recedes before my swimming eye; When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate I stand, and stretch my view to either state: Teach me to quit this transitory scene With decent triumph and a look serene; Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, And having lived to thee, in thee to die. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,

805:The face that Moses had begged to see – was forbidden to see – was slapped bloody (Exodus 33:19-20) The thorns that God had sent to curse the earth’s rebellion now twisted around his brow… “On your back with you!” One raises a mallet to sink the spike. But the soldier’s heart must continue pumping as he readies the prisoner’s wrist. Someone must sustain the soldier’s life minute by minute, for no man has this power on his own. Who supplies breath to his lungs? Who gives energy to his cells? Who holds his molecules together? Only by the Son do “all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). The victim wills that the soldier live on – he grants the warrior’s continued existence. The man swings. As the man swings, the Son recalls how he and the Father first designed the medial nerve of the human forearm – the sensations it would be capable of. The design proves flawless – the nerves perform exquisitely. “Up you go!” They lift the cross. God is on display in his underwear and can scarcely breathe. But these pains are a mere warm-up to his other and growing dread. He begins to feel a foreign sensation. Somewhere during this day an unearthly foul odor began to waft, not around his nose, but his heart. He feels dirty. Human wickedness starts to crawl upon his spotless being – the living excrement from our souls. The apple of his Father’s eye turns brown with rot. His Father! He must face his Father like this! From heaven the Father now rouses himself like a lion disturbed, shakes His mane, and roars against the shriveling remnant of a man hanging on a cross.Never has the Son seen the Father look at him so, never felt even the least of his hot breath. But the roar shakes the unseen world and darkens the visible sky. The Son does not recognize these eyes. “Son of Man! Why have you behaved so? You have cheated, lusted, stolen, gossiped – murdered, envied, hated, lied. You have cursed, robbed, over-spent, overeaten – fornicated, disobeyed, embezzled, and blasphemed. Oh the duties you have shirked, the children you have abandoned! Who has ever so ignored the poor, so played the coward, so belittled my name? Have you ever held a razor tongue? What a self-righteous, pitiful drunk – you, who moles young boys, peddle killer drugs, travel in cliques, and mock your parents. Who gave you the boldness to rig elections, foment revolutions, torture animals, and worship demons? Does the list never end! Splitting families, raping virgins, acting smugly, playing the pimp – buying politicians, practicing exhortation, filming pornography, accepting bribes. You have burned down buildings, perfected terrorist tactics, founded false religions, traded in slaves – relishing each morsel and bragging about it all. I hate, loathe these things in you! Disgust for everything about you consumes me! Can you not feel my wrath? Of course the Son is innocent He is blamelessness itself. The Father knows this. But the divine pair have an agreement, and the unthinkable must now take place. Jesus will be treated as if personally responsible for every sin ever committed. The Father watches as his heart’s treasure, the mirror image of himself, sinks drowning into raw, liquid sin. Jehovah’s stored rage against humankind from every century explodes in a single direction. “Father! Father! Why have you forsaken me?!” But heaven stops its ears. The Son stares up at the One who cannot, who will not, reach down or reply. The Trinity had planned it. The Son had endured it. The Spirit enabled Him. The Father rejected the Son whom He loved. Jesus, the God-man from Nazareth, perished. The Father accepted His sacrifice for sin and was satisfied. The Rescue was accomplished. ~ Joni Eareckson Tada,

806:And no one else knows of this?” he asked gently. I shook my head slowly, unable to remove my gaze from his faze. “Azmus discovered it by accident. Rode two days to reach me. I did send him…” There was no point in saying it again. Either he believed me, and--I swallowed painfully--I’d given him no particular reason to, or he didn’t. Begging, pleading, arguing, ranting--none of them would make any difference, except to make a horrible situation worse. I should have made amends from the beginning, and now it was too late. He took a deep breath. I couldn’t breathe, I just stared at him, waiting, feeling sweat trickle beneath my already soggy clothing. Then he smiled a little. “Brace up. We’re not about to embark on a duel to the death over the dishes.” He paused, then said lightly, “Though most of our encounters until very recently have been unenviable exchanges, you have never lied to me. Eat. We’ll leave before the next time-change, and part ways at the crossroads.” No “You’ve never lied before.” No “If I can trust you.’” No warnings or hedgings. He took all the responsibility--and the risk--himself. I didn’t know why, and to thank him for believing me would just embarrass us both. So I said nothing, but my eyes prickled. I looked down at my lap and busied myself with smoothing out my mud-gritty, wet gloves. “Why don’t you set aside that cloak and eat something?” His voice was flat. I realized he probably felt even nastier about the situation than I did. I heard the scrape of a bowl on the table and the clink of a spoon. The ordinary sounds restored me somehow, and I untied my cloak and shrugged it off. At once a weight that seemed greater than my own left me. I made a surreptitious swipe at my eyes, straightened my shoulders, and did my best to assume nonchalance as I picked up my spoon. After a short time, he said, “Don’t you have any questions for me?” I glanced up, my spoon poised midway between my bowl and my mouth. “Of course,” I said. “But I thought--” I started to wave my hand, realizing too late it still held the spoon, and winced as stew spattered down the table. Somehow the ridiculousness of it released some of the tension. As I mopped at the mess with a corner of my cloak, I said, “Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. So you knew about the plot all along?” “Pretty much from the beginning, though the timing is new. I surmised they would make their move in the fall, but something seems to have precipitated action. My first warning was from Elenet, who had found out a great deal from the Duke’s servants. That was her real reason for coming to Court, to tell me herself.” “What about Flauvic?” “It would appear,” he said carefully, “that he disassociated with this plan of his mother’s.” “Was that the argument he alluded to?” He did not ask when. “Perhaps. Though that might have been for effect. I can believe it only because it is uncharacteristic for him to lend himself to so stupid and clumsy a plan.” “Finesse,” I drawled in a parody of a courtier’s voice. “He’d want finesse, and to make everyone else look foolish.” Shevraeth smiled slightly. “Am I to understand you were not favorably impressed with Lord Flauvic?” “As far as I’m concerned, he and Fialma are both thorns,” I said, “though admittedly he is very pretty to look at. More so than his sour pickle of a sister. Anyway, I hope you aren’t trusting him as far as you can lift a mountain, because I wouldn’t.” “His house is being watched. He can’t stir a step outside without half a riding being within earshot.” “And he probably knows it,” I said, grinning. “Last question, why are you riding alone? Wouldn’t things be more effective with your army?” “I move fastest alone,” he said. “And my own people are in place, and have been for some time. ~ Sherwood Smith,

807:Mr And Mrs Discobbolos First Part Mr and Mrs Discobbolos Climbed to the top of a wall, And they sat to watch the sunset sky And to hear the Nupiter Piffkin cry And the Biscuit Buffalo call. They took up a roll and some Chamomile tea, And both were as happy as happy could be Till Mrs Discobbolos said, 'Oh! W! X! Y! Z! It has just come into my head Suppose we should happen to fall!!!!! Darling Mr Discobbolos? 'Suppose we should fall down flumpetty Just like two pieces of stone! On to the thorns, - or into the moat! What would become of your new green coat? And might you not break a bone? It never occurred to me before That perhaps we shall never go down any more!' And Mrs Discobbolos said 'Oh! W! X! Y! Z! What put it into your head To climb up this wall? - my own Darling Mr Discobbolos?' Mr Discobbolos answered, 'At first it gave me pain, And I felt my ears turn perfectly pink When your exclamation made me think We might never get down again! But now I believe it is wiser far To remain for ever just where we are.' And Mr Discobbolos said, 'Oh! W! X! Y! Z! It has just come into my head '- We shall never go down again Dearest Mrs Discobbolos.!' 137 So Mr and Mrs Discobbolos Stood up, and began to sing, 'Far away from hurry and strife Here we will pass the rest of life, Ding a dong, ding dong, ding! We want no knives nor forks nor chairs, No tables nor carpets nor household cares, From worry of life we've fled 'Oh! W! X! Y! Z! There is no more trouble ahead Sorrow or any such thing For Mr and Mrs Discobbolos!' Second Part. Mr and Mrs Discobbolos Lived on the top of the wall For twenty years, a month and a day, Till their hair had grown all pearly gray, And their teeth began to fall. They never were ill, or at all dejected, By all admired, and by some respected, Till Mrs Discobbolos said, 'Oh! W! X! Y! Z! It has just come into my head, We have no more room at all Darling Mr Discobbolos! Look at our six fine boys! And our six sweet girls so fair! Upon this wall they have all been born, And not one of the twelve has happened to fall Through my maternal care! Surely they should not pass their lives Without any chance of husbands or wives!' And Mrs Discobbolos said, 'Oh! W! X! Y! Z! Did it never come into your head That our lives must be lived elsewhere, Dearest Mr Discobbolos? 138 'They have never been at a ball, Nor have even seen a bazaar! Nor have heard folks say in a tone all hearty, 'What loves of girls (at a garden party) Those Misses Discobbolos are!' Morning and night it drives me wild To think of the fate of each darling child!' But Mr Discobbolos said, 'Oh! W! X! Y! Z! What has come to your fiddledum head! What a runcible goose you are! Octopod Mrs Discobbolos!' Suddenly Mr Discobbolos Slid from the top of the wall; And beneath it he dug a dreadful trench, And filled it with dynamite, gunpowder gench, And aloud he began to call 'Let the wild bee sing, And the blue bird hum! For the end of your lives has certainly come!' And Mrs Discobbolos said, 'Oh! W! X! Y! Z! We shall presently all be dead, On this ancient runcible wall, Terrible Mr Discobbolos!' Pensively, Mr Discobbolos Sat with his back to the wall; He lighted a match, and fired the train, And the mortified mountain echoed again To the sound of an awful fall! And all the Discobbolos family flew In thousands of bits to the sky so blue, And no one was left to have said, 'Oh! W! X! Y! Z! Has it come into anyone's head That the end has happened to all Of the whole of the Clan Discobbolos?' 139 ~ Edward Lear,

808:Maybe tangled will be a spectacular rump. maybe i will adore it: it could happen. But one thing is for sure: tangled will not be rapunzel. And thats too bad , because rapunzel is an specially layered and relevant fairytale, less about the love between a man and a woman than the misguided attempts of a mother trying to protect her daughter from (what she perceives ) as the worlds evils. The tale, you may recall, begins with a mother-to-bes yearning for the taste of rapunzel, a salad green she spies growing in the garden of the sorceress who happens to live next door. The womans craving becomes so intense , she tells her husband that if he doesn't fetch her some, she and their unborn baby will die. So he steals into the baby's yard, wraps his hands around a plant, and, just as he pulls... she appears in a fury. The two eventually strike a bargain: the mans wife can have as much of the plant as she wants- if she turns over her baby to the witch upon its birth. `i will take care for it like a mother,` the sorceress croons (as if that makes it all right). Then again , who would you rather have as a mom: the woman who would do anything for you or the one who would swap you in a New York minute for a bowl of lettuce? Rapunzel grows up, her hair grows down, and when she is twelve-note that age-Old Mother Gothel , as she calls the witch. leads her into the woods, locking her in a high tower which offers no escape and no entry except by scaling the girls flowing tresses. One day, a prince passes by and , on overhearing Rapunzel singing, falls immediately in love (that makes Rapunzel the inverse of Ariel- she is loved sight unseen because of her voice) . He shinnies up her hair to say hello and , depending on the version you read, they have a chaste little chat or get busy conceiving twins. Either way, when their tryst is discovered, Old Mother Gothel cries, `you wicked child! i thought i had separated you from the world, and yet you deceived me!` There you have it : the Grimm`s warning to parents , centuries before psychologists would come along with their studies and measurements, against undue restriction . Interestingly the prince cant save Rapuzel from her foster mothers wrath. When he sees the witch at the top of the now-severed braids, he jumps back in surprise and is blinded by the bramble that breaks his fall. He wanders the countryside for an unspecified time, living on roots and berries, until he accidentally stumbles upon his love. She weeps into his sightless eyes, restoring his vision , and - voila!- they rescue each other . `Rapunzel` then, wins the prize for the most egalitarian romance, but that its not its only distinction: it is the only well-known tale in which the villain is neither maimed nor killed. No red-hot shoes are welded to the witch`s feet . Her eyes are not pecked out. Her limbs are not lashed to four horses who speed off in different directions. She is not burned at the stake. Why such leniency? perhaps because she is not, in the end, really evil- she simply loves too much. What mother has not, from time to time, felt the urge to protect her daughter by locking her in a tower? Who among us doesn't have a tiny bit of trouble letting our children go? if the hazel branch is the mother i aspire to be, then Old Mother Gothel is my cautionary tale: she reminds us that our role is not to keep the world at bay but to prepare our daughters so they can thrive within it. That involves staying close but not crowding them, standing firm in one`s values while remaining flexible. The path to womanhood is strewn with enchantment , but it also rifle with thickets and thorns and a big bad culture that threatens to consume them even as they consume it. The good news is the choices we make for our toodles can influence how they navigate it as teens. I`m not saying that we can, or will, do everything `right,` only that there is power-magic-in awareness. ~ Peggy Orenstein,

809:It’s loneliness. Even though I’m surrounded by loved ones who care about me and want only the best, it’s possible they try to help only because they feel the same thing—loneliness—and why, in a gesture of solidarity, you’ll find the phrase “I am useful, even if alone” carved in stone. Though the brain says all is well, the soul is lost, confused, doesn’t know why life is being unfair to it. But we still wake up in the morning and take care of our children, our husband, our lover, our boss, our employees, our students, those dozens of people who make an ordinary day come to life. And we often have a smile on our face and a word of encouragement, because no one can explain their loneliness to others, especially when we are always in good company. But this loneliness exists and eats away at the best parts of us because we must use all our energy to appear happy, even though we will never be able to deceive ourselves. But we insist, every morning, on showing only the rose that blooms, and keep the thorny stem that hurts us and makes us bleed hidden within. Even knowing that everyone, at some point, has felt completely and utterly alone, it is humiliating to say, “I’m lonely, I need company. I need to kill this monster that everyone thinks is as imaginary as a fairy-tale dragon, but isn’t.” But it isn’t. I wait for a pure and virtuous knight, in all his glory, to come defeat it and push it into the abyss for good, but that knight never comes. Yet we cannot lose hope. We start doing things we don’t usually do, daring to go beyond what is fair and necessary. The thorns inside us will grow larger and more overwhelming, yet we cannot give up halfway. Everyone is looking to see the final outcome, as though life were a huge game of chess. We pretend it doesn’t matter whether we win or lose, the important thing is to compete. We root for our true feelings to stay opaque and hidden, but then … … instead of looking for companionship, we isolate ourselves even more in order to lick our wounds in silence. Or we go out for dinner or lunch with people who have nothing to do with our lives and spend the whole time talking about things that are of no importance. We even manage to distract ourselves for a while with drink and celebration, but the dragon lives on until the people who are close to us see that something is wrong and begin to blame themselves for not making us happy. They ask what the problem is. We say that everything is fine, but it’s not … Everything is awful. Please, leave me alone, because I have no more tears to cry or heart left to suffer. All I have is insomnia, emptiness, and apathy, and, if you just ask yourselves, you’re feeling the same thing. But they insist that this is just a rough patch or depression because they are afraid to use the real and damning word: loneliness. Meanwhile, we continue to relentlessly pursue the only thing that would make us happy: the knight in shining armor who will slay the dragon, pick the rose, and clip the thorns. Many claim that life is unfair. Others are happy because they believe that this is exactly what we deserve: loneliness, unhappiness. Because we have everything and they don’t. But one day those who are blind begin to see. Those who are sad are comforted. Those who suffer are saved. The knight arrives to rescue us, and life is vindicated once again. Still, you have to lie and cheat, because this time the circumstances are different. Who hasn’t felt the urge to drop everything and go in search of their dream? A dream is always risky, for there is a price to pay. That price is death by stoning in some countries, and in others it could be social ostracism or indifference. But there is always a price to pay. You keep lying and people pretend they still believe, but secretly they are jealous, make comments behind your back, say you’re the very worst, most threatening thing there is. You are not an adulterous man, tolerated and often even admired, but an adulterous woman, one who is ... ~ Paulo Coelho,

810:This was why love was so dangerous. Love turned the world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals sails appeared charmed. They blazed red in the day and silver at night, like a magician’s cloak, hinting at mysteries concealed beneath, which Tella planned to uncover that night. Drunken laughter floated above her as Tella delved deeper into the ship’s underbelly in search of Nigel the Fortune-teller. Her first evening on the vessel she’d made the mistake of sleeping, not realizing until the following day that Legend’s performers had switched their waking hours to prepare for the next Caraval. They slumbered in the day and woke after sunset. All Tella had learned her first day aboard La Esmeralda was that Nigel was on the ship, but she had yet to actually see him. The creaking halls beneath decks were like the bridges of Caraval, leading different places at different hours and making it difficult to know who stayed in which room. Tella wondered if Legend had designed it that way, or if it was just the unpredictable nature of magic. She imagined Legend in his top hat, laughing at the question and at the idea that magic had more control than he did. For many, Legend was the definition of magic. When she had first arrived on Isla de los Sueños, Tella suspected everyone could be Legend. Julian had so many secrets that she’d questioned if Legend’s identity was one of them, up until he’d briefly died. Caspar, with his sparkling eyes and rich laugh, had played the role of Legend in the last game, and at times he’d been so convincing Tella wondered if he was actually acting. At first sight, Dante, who was almost too beautiful to be real, looked like the Legend she’d always imagined. Tella could picture Dante’s wide shoulders filling out a black tailcoat while a velvet top hat shadowed his head. But the more Tella thought about Legend, the more she wondered if he even ever wore a top hat. If maybe the symbol was another thing to throw people off. Perhaps Legend was more magic than man and Tella had never met him in the flesh at all. The boat rocked and an actual laugh pierced the quiet. Tella froze. The laughter ceased but the air in the thin corridor shifted. What had smelled of salt and wood and damp turned thick and velvet-sweet. The scent of roses. Tella’s skin prickled; gooseflesh rose on her bare arms. At her feet a puddle of petals formed a seductive trail of red. Tella might not have known Legend’s true name, but she knew he favored red and roses and games. Was this his way of toying with her? Did he know what she was up to? The bumps on her arms crawled up to her neck and into her scalp as her newest pair of slippers crushed the tender petals. If Legend knew what she was after, Tella couldn’t imagine he would guide her in the correct direction, and yet the trail of petals was too tempting to avoid. They led to a door that glowed copper around the edges. She turned the knob. And her world transformed into a garden, a paradise made of blossoming flowers and bewitching romance. The walls were formed of moonlight. The ceiling was made of roses that dripped down toward the table in the center of the room, covered with plates of cakes and candlelight and sparkling honey wine. But none of it was for Tella. It was all for Scarlett. Tella had stumbled into her sister’s love story and it was so romantic it was painful to watch. Scarlett stood across the chamber. Her full ruby gown bloomed brighter than any flowers, and her glowing skin rivaled the moon as she gazed up at Julian. They touched nothing except each other. While Scarlett pressed her lips to Julian’s, his arms wrapped around her as if he’d found the one thing he never wanted to let go of. This was why love was so dangerous. Love turned the world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals were as ephemeral as feelings, eventually they would wilt and die, leaving nothing but the thorns. ~ Stephanie Garber,

811:A Song To David Sublime—invention ever young, Of vast conception, tow'ring tongue To God th' eternal theme; Notes from yon exaltations caught, Unrivall'd royalty of thought O'er meaner strains supreme. His muse, bright angel of his verse, Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, For all the pangs that rage; Blest light still gaining on the gloom, The more than Michal of his bloom, Th' Abishag of his age. He sang of God—the mighty source Of all things—the stupendous force On which all strength depends; From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, All period, power, and enterprise Commences, reigns, and ends. Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said To Moses; while earth heard in dread, And, smitten to the heart, At once above, beneath, around, All Nature, without voice or sound, Replied, O LORD, THOU ART. The world, the clustering spheres, He made; The glorious light, the soothing shade, Dale, champaign, grove, and hill; The multitudinous abyss, Where Secrecy remains in bliss, And Wisdom hides her skill. The pillars of the Lord are seven, Which stand from earth to topmost heaven; His Wisdom drew the plan; His Word accomplish'd the design, 17 From brightest gem to deepest mine; From Christ enthroned, to Man. For Adoration all the ranks Of Angels yield eternal thanks, And David in the midst; With God's good poor, which, last and least In man's esteem, Thou to Thy feast, O blessèd Bridegroom, bidd'st! For Adoration, David's Psalms Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; And he, who kneels and chants, Prevails his passions to control, Finds meat and medicine to the soul, Which for translation pants. For Adoration, in the dome Of Christ, the sparrows find a home, And on His olives perch: The swallow also dwells with thee, O man of God's humility, Within his Saviour's church. Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, And drops upon the leafy limes; Sweet Hermon's fragrant air: Sweet is the lily's silver bell, And sweet the wakeful tapers' smell That watch for early prayer. Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; Sweet, when the lost arrive: Sweet the musician's ardour beats, While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, The choicest flowers to hive. Strong is the horse upon his speed; Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, Which makes at once his game: Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; 18 Strong through the turbulent profound Shoots Xiphias to his aim. Strong is the lion—like a coal His eyeball,—like a bastion's mole His chest against the foes: Strong, the gier-eagle on his sail; Strong against tide th' enormous whale Emerges as he goes. But stronger still, in earth and air, And in the sea, the man of prayer, And far beneath the tide: And in the seat to faith assign'd, Where ask is have, where seek is find, Where knock is open wide. Precious the penitential tear; And precious is the sigh sincere, Acceptable to God: And precious are the winning flowers, In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers Bound on the hallow'd sod. Glorious Glorious Glorious Glorious Glorious Glorious the sun in mid career; th' assembled fires appear; the comet's train: the trumpet and alarm; the Almighty's stretched-out arm; th' enraptured main: Glorious Glorious Glorious Glorious Glorious Glorious the northern lights astream; the song, when God 's the theme; the thunder's roar: Hosanna from the den; the catholic Amen; the martyr's gore: Glorious—more glorious—is the crown Of Him that brought salvation down, By meekness call'd thy Son: Thou that stupendous truth believed;— 19 And now the matchless deed 's achieved, Determined, dared, and done! ~ Christopher Smart,

812:The Deserted Garden I mind me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted. The beds and walks were vanished quite; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, The greenest grasses Nature laid To sanctify her right. I called the place my wilderness, For no one entered there but I; The sheep looked in, the grass to espy, And passed it ne'ertheless. The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child. Adventurous joy it was for me! I crept beneath the boughs, and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar tree. Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white Well satisfied with dew and light And careless to be seen. Long years ago it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all. Some lady, stately overmuch, Here moving with a silken noise, Has blushed beside them at the voice That likened her to such. 227 And these, to make a diadem, She often may have plucked and twined, Half-smiling as it came to mind That few would look at them. Oh, little thought that lady proud, A child would watch her fair white rose, When buried lay her whiter brows, And silk was changed for shroud! Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns For men unlearned and simple phrase,) A child would bring it all its praise By creeping through the thorns! To me upon my low moss seat, Though never a dream the roses sent Of science or love's compliment, I ween they smelt as sweet. It did not move my grief to see The trace of human step departed: Because the garden was deserted, The blither place for me! Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken Has childhood 'twixt the sun and sward; We draw the moral afterward, We feel the gladness then. And gladdest hours for me did glide In silence at the rose-tree wall: A thrush made gladness musical Upon the other side. Nor he nor I did e'er incline To peck or pluck the blossoms white; How should I know but roses might Lead lives as glad as mine? To make my hermit-home complete, 228 I brought dear water from the spring Praised in its own low murmuring, And cresses glossy wet. And so, I thought, my likeness grew (Without the melancholy tale) To 'Gentle Hermit of the Dale,' And Angelina too. For oft I read within my nook Such minstrel stories; till the breeze Made sounds poetic in the trees, And then I shut the book. If I shut this wherein I write I hear no more the wind athwart Those trees, nor feel that childish heart Delighting in delight. My childhood from my life is parted, My footstep from the moss which drew Its fairy circle round: anew The garden is deserted. Another thrush may there rehearse The madrigals which sweetest are; No more for me! myself afar Do sing a sadder verse. Ah me, ah me! when erst I lay In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, I laughed unto myself and thought 'The time will pass away.' And still I laughed, and did not fear But that, whene'er was past away The childish time, some happier play My womanhood would cheer. I knew the time would pass away, And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, Dear God, how seldom, if at all, 229 Did I look up to pray! The time is past; and now that grows The cypress high among the trees, And I behold white sepulchres As well as the white rose, -When graver, meeker thoughts are given, And I have learnt to lift my face, Reminded how earth's greenest place The color draws from heaven, -It something saith for earthly pain, But more for Heavenly promise free, That I who was, would shrink to be That happy child again. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

813:BOWLS OF FOOD Moon and evening star do their slow tambourine dance to praise this universe. The purpose of every gathering is discovered: to recognize beauty and love what’s beautiful. “Once it was like that, now it’s like this,” the saying goes around town, and serious consequences too. Men and women turn their faces to the wall in grief. They lose appetite. Then they start eating the fire of pleasure, as camels chew pungent grass for the sake of their souls. Winter blocks the road. Flowers are taken prisoner underground. Then green justice tenders a spear. Go outside to the orchard. These visitors came a long way, past all the houses of the zodiac, learning Something new at each stop. And they’re here for such a short time, sitting at these tables set on the prow of the wind. Bowls of food are brought out as answers, but still no one knows the answer. Food for the soul stays secret. Body food gets put out in the open like us. Those who work at a bakery don’t know the taste of bread like the hungry beggars do. Because the beloved wants to know, unseen things become manifest. Hiding is the hidden purpose of creation: bury your seed and wait. After you die, All the thoughts you had will throng around like children. The heart is the secret inside the secret. Call the secret language, and never be sure what you conceal. It’s unsure people who get the blessing. Climbing cypress, opening rose, Nightingale song, fruit, these are inside the chill November wind. They are its secret. We climb and fall so often. Plants have an inner Being, and separate ways of talking and feeling. An ear of corn bends in thought. Tulip, so embarrassed. Pink rose deciding to open a competing store. A bunch of grapes sits with its feet stuck out. Narcissus gossiping about iris. Willow, what do you learn from running water? Humility. Red apple, what has the Friend taught you? To be sour. Peach tree, why so low? To let you reach. Look at the poplar, tall but without fruit or flower. Yes, if I had those, I’d be self-absorbed like you. I gave up self to watch the enlightened ones. Pomegranate questions quince, Why so pale? For the pearl you hid inside me. How did you discover my secret? Your laugh. The core of the seen and unseen universes smiles, but remember, smiles come best from those who weep. Lightning, then the rain-laughter. Dark earth receives that clear and grows a trunk. Melon and cucumber come dragging along on pilgrimage. You have to be to be blessed! Pumpkin begins climbing a rope! Where did he learn that? Grass, thorns, a hundred thousand ants and snakes, everything is looking for food. Don’t you hear the noise? Every herb cures some illness. Camels delight to eat thorns. We prefer the inside of a walnut, not the shell. The inside of an egg, the outside of a date. What about your inside and outside? The same way a branch draws water up many feet, God is pulling your soul along. Wind carries pollen from blossom to ground. Wings and Arabian stallions gallop toward the warmth of spring. They visit; they sing and tell what they think they know: so-and-so will travel to such-and-such. The hoopoe carries a letter to Solomon. The wise stork says lek-lek. Please translate. It’s time to go to the high plain, to leave the winter house. Be your own watchman as birds are. Let the remembering beads encircle you. I make promises to myself and break them. Words are coins: the vein of ore and the mine shaft, what they speak of. Now consider the sun. It’s neither oriental nor occidental. Only the soul knows what love is. This moment in time and space is an eggshell with an embryo crumpled inside, soaked in belief-yolk, under the wing of grace, until it breaks free of mind to become the song of an actual bird, and God. ~ Rumi,

814:A Tale Of The Miser And The Poet A WIT, transported with Inditing, Unpay'd, unprais'd, yet ever Writing; Who, for all Fights and Fav'rite Friends, Had Poems at his Fingers Ends; For new Events was still providing; Yet now desirous to be riding, He pack'd-up ev'ry Ode and Ditty And in Vacation left the City; So rapt with Figures, and Allusions, With secret Passions, sweet Confusions; With Sentences from Plays well-known, And thousand Couplets of his own; That ev'n the chalky Road look'd gay, And seem'd to him the Milky Way. But Fortune, who the Ball is tossing, And Poets ever will be crossing, Misled the Steed, which ill he guided, Where several gloomy Paths divided. The steepest in Descent he follow'd, Enclos'd by Rocks, which Time had hollow'd; Till, he believ'd, alive and booted, He'd reach'd the Shades by Homer quoted. But all, that he cou'd there discover, Was, in a Pit with Thorns grown over, Old Mammon digging, straining, sweating, As Bags of Gold he thence was getting; Who, when reprov'd for such Dejections By him, who liv'd on high Reflections, Reply'd; Brave Sir, your Time is ended, And Poetry no more befriended. I hid this Coin, when Charles was swaying; When all was Riot, Masking, Playing; When witty Beggars were in fashion, And Learning had o'er-run the Nation, But, since Mankind is so much wiser, That none is valued like the Miser, I draw it hence, and now these Sums In proper Soil grow up to {1} Plumbs; 31 Which gather'd once, from that rich Minute We rule the World, and all that's in it. But, quoth the Poet,can you raise, As well as Plumb-trees, Groves of Bays? Where you, which I wou'd chuse much rather, May Fruits of Reputation gather? Will Men of Quality, and Spirit, Regard you for intrinsick Merit? And seek you out, before your Betters, For Conversation, Wit, and Letters? Fool, quoth the Churl, who knew no Breeding; Have these been Times for such Proceeding? Instead of Honour'd, and Rewarded, Are you not Slighted, or Discarded? What have you met with, but Disgraces? Your PRIOR cou'd not keep in Places; And your VAN-BRUG had found no Quarter, But for his dabbling in the Morter. ROWE no Advantages cou'd hit on, Till Verse he left, to write North-Briton. PHILIPS, who's by the Shilling known, Ne'er saw a Shilling of his own. Meets {2} PHILOMELA, in the Town Her due Proportion of Renown? What Pref'rence has ARDELIA seen, T'expel, tho' she cou'd write the Spleen? Of Coach, or Tables, can you brag, Or better Cloaths than Poet RAG? Do wealthy Kindred, when they meet you, With Kindness, or Distinction, greet you? Or have your lately flatter'd Heroes Enrich'd you like the Roman Maroes? No–quoth the Man of broken Slumbers: Yet we have Patrons for our Numbers; There are Mecænas's among 'em. Quoth Mammon,pray Sir, do not wrong 'em; But in your Censures use a Conscience, 32 Nor charge Great Men with thriftless Nonsense: Since they, as your own Poets sing, Now grant no Worth in any thing But so much Money as 'twill bring. Then, never more from your Endeavours Expect Preferment, or less Favours. But if you'll 'scape Contempt, or worse, Be sure, put Money in your Purse; Money! which only can relieve you When Fame and Friendship will deceive you. Sir, (quoth the Poet humbly bowing, And all that he had said allowing) Behold me and my airy Fancies Subdu'd, like Giants in Romances. I here submit to your Discourses; Which since Experience too enforces, I, in that solitary Pit, Your Gold withdrawn, will hide my Wit: Till Time, which hastily advances, And gives to all new Turns and Chances, Again may bring it into use; Roscommons may again produce; New Augustean Days revive, When Wit shall please, and Poets thrive. Till when, let those converse in private, Who taste what others don't arrive at; Yielding that Mammonists surpass us; And let the Bank out-swell Parnassus. ~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,

815:In Memoryt Of Saretta Deakin _Who Died on October 25th_, 1899. THERE was a day, A horrible Autumn day, When from her home, the home she made for ours And that day made a nightmare of white flowers And folk in black who whispered pityingly, They carried her away; And left our hearts all cold And empty, yet with such a store to hold Of sodden grief the slow drops still ooze out, And, falling on all fair things, they wither these. Tears came with time--but not with time went by. And still we wander desolate about The poor changed house, the garden and the croft, Warm kitchen, sunny parlour, with the soft Intolerable pervading memories Of her whose face and voice made melodies, Sweet unforgotten songs of mother-love-Dear songs of all the little joys that were. We see the sun, and have no joy thereof, Because she gathered in her dying hands And carried with her to the fair far lands The flower of all our joy, because she went Out of the garden where her days were spent, And took the very sun away with her. The cross stands at her head. Over her breast, that loving mother-breast, Close buds of pansies purple and white are pressed. It seems a place for rest, For happy folded sleep; but ah, not there, Not there, not there, our hardest tears are shed, But in the house made empty for her sake. Here, in the night intolerable, wake The hungry passionate pains of Love still strong To fight with death the bitter slow night long. Then the rich price that poor Love has to pay 141 Is paid, slow drop by drop, till the new day With thin cold fingers pushes back night's wings, And drags us out to common cruel things That sting, and barb their stings with memory. O Love--and is the price too hard to give? Thine is the splendour of all things that live, And this thy pain the price of life to thee-The sacrament that binds to the beloved, The chain that holds though mountains be removed, The portent of thine immortality. So, in the house of pain imprisoned, we Endure our bondage, and work out our time, Nor seek from out our dungeon walls to climb-Bondsmen, who would not, if we could, be free. Thank God, our hands still hold Love's cord--and she-Do not her hands still clasp the cord we hold, Drawing us near, coiling bright fold on fold, Till the far day when it shall draw us near To the sight of her--her living hands, her dear Tired face, grown weary of watching for our face? And we shall hold her, in the happy place, And hear her voice, the old same voice we knew-'Ah! children, I am tired of wanting you!' Or, in some world more beautiful and dear Than any she ever even dreamed of here, Where time is changed, does she await the day She longed for, and so little a while away, When all the love we watered with our tears Shall bloom, transplanted by the kindly years? Dreaming through her new garden does she go, Remembering the old garden, long ago, Tending new flowers more fair than those that grow In this sad garden where such sad flowers blow; And, fondly touching bud and leaf and shoot, Training her flowers to perfect branch and root, Does she sometimes entreat some darling flower To wait a little for its opening hour? Can you not hear her voice: 'Ah, not to-day, While my dear flowers, my own, are far away. Be patient, bud! to-morrow soon will come: 142 Ah! blossom when my little girl comes home!' But now. But here. The empty house, the always empty place-The black remembrance that no night blots out, The memories, white, unbearable, and dear That no white sunlight makes less cruel and clear? The resistless riotous rout Of cruel conquering thoughts, the night, the day? Love is immortal: this the price to pay. Worse than all pain it would be to forget-On Love's brave brow the crown of thorns is set. Love is no niggard: though the price be high Into God's market Love goes forth to buy With royal meed God's greatest gifts and gain, Love offers up his whole rich store of pain, And buys of God Love's immortality. ~ Edith Nesbit,

816:I. O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odors plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear! II. Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine aery surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear! III. Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear! IV. If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V. Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? LISTEN HERE: https://soundcloud.com/anton-jarvis-206182017/ode-to-the-west-wind-by-percy-bysshe-shelley Poem form:- sonnet repeated five times. Meter:- Iambic pentameter. Rhyme:- Terza Rima. 'This poem was conceived and chiefly written in a wood that skirts the Arno, near Florence, and on a day when that tempestuous wind, whose temperature is at once mild and animating, was collecting the vapours which pour down the autumnal rains. They began, as I foresaw, at sunset with a violent tempest of hail and rain, attended by that magnificent thunder and lightning peculiar to the Cisalpine regions. The phenomenon alluded to at the conclusion of the third stanza is well known to naturalists. The vegetation at the bottom of the sea, of rivers, and of lakes, sympathizes with that of the land in the change of seasons, and is consequently influenced by the winds which announce it.[SHELLEYS NOTE.])' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ode to the West Wind ,

817:The Interrogation Of The Man Of Many Hearts Who's she, that one in your arms? She's the one I carried my bones to and built a house that was just a cot and built a life that was over an hour and built a castle where no one lives and built, in the end, a song to go with the ceremony. Why have you brought her here? Why do you knock on my door with your little stores and songs? I had joined her the way a man joins a woman and yet there was no place for festivities or formalities and these things matter to a woman and, you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage. You come to me out of wedlock and kick your foot on my stoop and ask me to measure such things? Never. Never. Not my real wife. She's my real witch, my fork, my mare, my mother of tears, my skirtful of hell, the stamp of my sorrows, the stamp of my bruises and also the children she might bear and also a private place, a body of bones that I would honestly buy, if I could buy, that I would marry, if I could marry. And should I torment you for that? Each man has a small fate allotted to him and yours is a passionate one. 292 But I am in torment. We have no place. The cot we share is almost a prison where I can't say buttercup, bobolink, sugarduck, pumpkin, love ribbon, locket, valentine, summergirl, funnygirl and all those nonsense things one says in bed. To say I have bedded with her is not enough. I have not only bedded her down. I have tied her down with a knot. Then why do you stick your fists into your pockets? Why do you shuffle your feet like a schoolboy? For years I have tied this knot in my dreams. I have walked through a door in my dreams and she was standing there in my mother's apron. Once she crawled through a window that was shaped like a keyhole and she was wearing my daughter's pink corduroys and each time I tied these women in a knot. Once a queen came. I tied her too. But this is something I have actually tied and now I have made her fast. I sang her out. I caught her down. I stamped her out with a song. There was no other apartment for it. There was no other chamber for it. Only the knot. The bedded-down knot. Thus I have laid my hands upon her and have called her eyes and her mouth as mine, as also her tongue. Why do you ask me to make choices? I am not a judge or a psychologist. You own your bedded-down knot. And yet I have real daytimes and nighttimes with children and balconies and a good wife. Thus I have tied these other knots, yet I would rather not think of them when I speak to you of her. Not now. If she were a room to rent I would pay. 293 If she were a life to save I would save. Maybe I am a man of many hearts. A man of many hearts? Why then do you tremble at my doorway? A man of many hearts does not need me. I'm caught deep in the dye of her. I have allowed you to catch me red-handed, catch me with my wild oats in a wild clock for my mare, my dove and my own clean body. People might say I have snakes in my boots but I tell you that just once am I in the stirrups, just once, this once, in the cup. The love of the woman is in the song. I called her the woman in red. I called her the woman in pink but she was ten colors and ten women I could hardly name her. I know who she is. You have named her enough. Maybe I shouldn't have put it in words. Frankly, I think I'm worse for this kissing, drunk as a piper, kicking the traces and determined to tie her up forever. You see the song is the life, the life I can't live. God, even as he passes, hand down monogamy like slang. I wanted to write her into the law. But, you know, there is no law for this. Man of many hearts, you are a fool! The clover has grown thorns this year and robbed the cattle of their fruit and the stones of the river have sucked men's eyes dry, season after season, and every bed has been condemned, 294 not by morality or law, but by time. ~ Anne Sexton,

818: ON THOSE WHO ARE SUBLIME Still is the bottom of my sea: who would guess that it harbors sportive monsters? Imperturbable is my depth, but it sparkles with swimming riddles and laughters. One who was sublime I saw today, one who was solemn, an ascetic of the spirit; oh, how my soul laughed at his ugliness! With a swelled chest and like one who holds in his breath, he stood there, the sublime one, silent, decked out with ugly truths, the spoil of his 117 hunting, and rich in torn garments; many thorns too adorned him-yet I saw no rose. As yet he has not learned laughter or beauty. Gloomy this hunter returned from the woods of knowledge. He came home from a fight with savage beasts; but out of his seriousness there also peers a savage beast-one not overcome. He still stands there like a tiger who wants to leap; but I do not like these tense souls, and my taste does not favor all these who withdraw. And you tell me, friends, that there is no disputing of taste and tasting? But all of life is a dispute over taste and tasting. Taste-that is at the same time weight and scales and weigher; and woe unto all the living that would live without disputes over weight and scales and weighersi If he grew tired of his sublimity, this sublime one, only then would his beauty commence; and only then will I taste him and find him tasteful. And only when he turns away from himself, will he jump over his shadow-and verily, into his sun. All-too-long has he been sitting in the shadow, and the cheeks of this ascetic of the spirit have grown pale; he almost starved to death on his expectations. Contempt is still in his eyes, and nausea hides around his mouth. Though he is resting now, his rest has not yet lain in the sun. He should act like a bull, and his happiness should smell of the earth, and not of contempt for the earth. I would like to see him as a white bull, walking before the plowshare, snorting and bellowing; and his bellowing should be in praise of everything earthly. His face is still dark; the shadow of the hand plays upon him. His sense of sight is still in shadows. His deed itself still lies on him as a shadow: the hand still darkens the doer. As yet he has not overcome his deed. 118 Though I love the bull's neck on him, I also want to see the eyes of the angel. He must still discard his heroic will; he shall be elevated, not merely sublime: the ether itself should elevate him, the will-less one. He subdued monsters, he solved riddles: but he must still redeem his own monsters and riddles, changing them into heavenly children. As yet his knowledge has not learned to smile and to be without jealousy; as yet his torrential passion has not become still in beauty. Verily, it is not in satiety that his desire shall grow silent and be submerged, but in beauty. Gracefulness is part of the graciousness of the great-souled. His arm placed over his head: thus should the hero rest; thus should he overcome even his rest. But just for the hero the beautiful is the most difficult thing. No violent will can attain the beautiful by exertion. A little more, a little less: precisely this counts for much here, this matters most here. To stand with relaxed muscles and unharnessed will: that is most difficult for all of you who are sublime. When power becomes gracious and descends into the visible-such descent I call beauty. And there is nobody from whom I want beauty as much as from you who are powerful: let your kindness be your final self-conquest. Of all evil I deem you capable: therefore I want the good from you. Verily, I have often laughed at the weaklings who thought themselves good because they had no claws. You shall strive after the virtue of the column: it grows more and more beautiful and gentle, but internally harder and more enduring, as it ascends. Indeed, you that are sublime shall yet become beautiful one day and hold up a mirror to your own beauty. 119 Then your soul will shudder with godlike desires, and there will be adoration even in your vanity. For this is the soul's secret: only when the hero has abandoned her, she is approached in a dream by the overhero. Thus spoke Zarathustra. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON THOSE WHO ARE SUBLIME ,

819:De Profundis The face, which, duly as the sun, Rose up for me with life begun, To mark all bright hours of the day With hourly love, is dimmed away— And yet my days go on, go on. II The tongue which, like a stream, could run Smooth music from the roughest stone, And every morning with ' Good day' Make each day good, is hushed away, And yet my days go on, go on. III The heart which, like a staff, was one For mine to lean and rest upon, The strongest on the longest day With steadfast love, is caught away, And yet my days go on, go on. IV And cold before my summer's done, And deaf in Nature's general tune, And fallen too low for special fear, And here, with hope no longer here, While the tears drop, my days go on. The world goes whispering to its own, ‘This anguish pierces to the bone;’ And tender friends go sighing round, ‘What love can ever cure this wound ?' My days go on, my days go on. 43 VI The past rolls forward on the sun And makes all night. O dreams begun, Not to be ended! Ended bliss, And life that will not end in this! My days go on, my days go on. VII Breath freezes on my lips to moan: As one alone, once not alone, I sit and knock at Nature's door, Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, Whose desolated days go on. VIII I knock and cry, —Undone, undone! Is there no help, no comfort, —none? No gleaning in the wide wheat plains Where others drive their loaded wains? My vacant days go on, go on. IX This Nature, though the snows be down, Thinks kindly of the bird of June: The little red hip on the tree Is ripe for such. What is for me, Whose days so winterly go on? No bird am I, to sing in June, And dare not ask an equal boon. Good nests and berries red are Nature's To give away to better creatures, — And yet my days go on, go on. XI 44 I ask less kindness to be done, — Only to loose these pilgrim shoon, (Too early worn and grimed) with sweet Cool deadly touch to these tired feet. Till days go out which now go on. XII Only to lift the turf unmown From off the earth where it has grown, Some cubit-space, and say ‘Behold, Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold, Forgetting how the days go on.’ XIII What harm would that do? Green anon The sward would quicken, overshone By skies as blue; and crickets might Have leave to chirp there day and night While my new rest went on, went on. XIV From gracious Nature have I won Such liberal bounty? may I run So, lizard-like, within her side, And there be safe, who now am tried By days that painfully go on? XV —A Voice reproves me thereupon, More sweet than Nature's when the drone Of bees is sweetest, and more deep Than when the rivers overleap The shuddering pines, and thunder on. XVI 45 God's Voice, not Nature's! Night and noon He sits upon the great white throne And listens for the creatures' praise. What babble we of days and days? The Day-spring He, whose days go on. XVII He reigns above, He reigns alone; Systems burn out and have his throne; Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall Around Him, changeless amid all, Ancient of Days, whose days go on. XVIII He reigns below, He reigns alone, And, having life in love forgone Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, He reigns the Jealous God. Who mourns Or rules with Him, while days go on? XIX By anguish which made pale the sun, I hear Him charge his saints that none Among his creatures anywhere Blaspheme against Him with despair, However darkly days go on. XX Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown! No mortal grief deserves that crown. O supreme Love, chief misery, The sharp regalia are for Thee Whose days eternally go on! XXI For us, —whatever's undergone, Thou knowest, willest what is done, 46 Grief may be joy misunderstood; Only the Good discerns the good. I trust Thee while my days go on. XXII Whatever's lost, it first was won; We will not struggle nor impugn. Perhaps the cup was broken here, That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. I praise Thee while my days go on. XXIII I praise Thee while my days go on; I love Thee while my days go on: Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, With emptied arms and treasure lost, I thank Thee while my days go on. XXIV And having in thy life-depth thrown Being and suffering (which are one), As a child drops his pebble small Down some deep well, and hears it fall Smiling—so I. THY DAYS GO ON. ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning,

820:Wedding Gift Obscure lies the green pond Slime coated dark. Like a place in ruin tragic Under the moss of sad neglect. You, dear child, have begun to shiver Even in its soft breeze. I, your sister, shall seat you there wrapped well in my upper robe The deep darkness, dear, is slowly leaving The first glimmerings of light come; Will you weep, as in these waters dark I sink down and disappear? Pointing your lovely little finger, Petal soft as the rays of the early sun Haven't you morning after morning, Sketched the pattern of flowers on this pool? One of them, long-stemmed, dear brother, I shall pick and give you today. The wedding yesterday was solemnised Of my younger sister, the one elder to you, To that couple, newly wedded, present This flower, as though an ambrosial bloom. Till this day I felt needless fear To plunge into the irretrievable; Only today I've gained strength To slip down alone beyond my depth As we started a while ago, Lighted wick in hand, Didn't mother say, 'Can't this girl have her holy immersion after dawn? ' 'Too much of anything, remember Will come to nothing', she added. Each moment of her daughter breeds Callous suspicion in the mother's mind. Bathing early denotes harlot's ways, Lying late is but false pretence. 17 Visit the temple or visit it not, our mother meets misinterpretation. Life to the mother, a prolonged heart-burn, To the poor daughter a crown of thorns. The gleam and the bubbly sound, dear Show that the fish are waking afar; Sorry, I forgot to warn you, dear But why fear such trifles, I say The wedding yesterday was solemnised Of my younger sister, the one elder to you. A sigh of relief mother must have heaved That daughter at least will not go astray! Even the distant relative had said adieu, And quite early mother had gone to bed, By happy festive toil tired, You too on your mat curled up. The maid, hoarse from extolling the bride-chamber, Lay down in deep slumber, I alone lay awake, mind musing Over the offer of this gift. Before agitated by the golden rays, It is with pollen gilded, Before the blessed bride and groom arrive To dip and bathe; Before the sun rises in his glory, Your sister must move in and cull the flower. The deep darkness, dear, is slowly leaving, The first glimmerings of light come. What aroused fear stands unmasked Casting a bright smile. Will you weep, as in these waters dark I sink down and disappear? Up to the neck, in shuddering cold, I shall move and look back, My darling, you sit on this step Without fear, smiling, smiling Your sister can hope for a smile From no lips, but thine. 18 If my hand cannot reach the stem, I shall slide slowly and pluck it, A spot beyond my level, dangerously deep, And for sure, my heart, tremulous with joy. If late, who all will not come seeking, Are not quarrels, cruel words, their way of life? 'Has not that wretched girl bathed and moved up? Mother can speak only in such a tone. 'She's been pampered too much', such will be The judgment, most certain, of your sister young. When thus the elders' anger strikes flame, Careful you be not to contradict. These thighs, soft as petal, never again Should bear the welts of flogging. Possibly come your dear brother-in-law The newly won relative of yours. If so, your sister will only lie here Among the lotus-stems her dress close entangled. If I come up, I may have to face him, My clothes all wet and clinging. Even as a girl I've only stood before him Bathed, my forehead daintily marked, Dressed in sari and ornaments, Well groomed and beautiful. At noon, on the banks of this lotus-pond, As he sat in he green shade, To graze the goat, or for a while To gloat over the beauty of the blooms, I've never come, unless elegantly dressed, My heart throbbing in the fullness of joy. After we had grown up in a love That even the death could not cut asunder; As we parted, bidding farewell In cheerful heart-deep friendliness, I stood grandly dressed, A smile lighting my face I wish those eyes should never See me in any other form. As others stand engaged in discussion, 19 The gentleman will question you, With a loving kiss your sister pleads, Remember only to say this: 'In truth, saying she wanted to give A gift to the newly weds, My sister slid into the pond to pluck a lotus lovely' Darkness has left my mind Now aflame with your smile. Will you weep as in these waters dark I sink down and disappear? ~ Edasseri Govindan Nair,

821:Argemone The terrible night-watch is over, I turn where I lie, To eastward my dim eyes discover Faint streaks in the sky ; Faint streaks on a faint light that dapples And dawns like the ripening of apples, Closes with darkness and grapples, And darkness must die. And the dawn finds us where the dusk found us— The quick and the dead ; Thou dawn-slaying darkness around us, Oh ! slay me instead ! Thou pitiless earth that would sever Twain souls, reuniting them never, Oh, gape and engulf me for ever, Oh, cover my head ! The toils that men strive with stout-hearted, The fears that men fly, I have known them, but they have departed, And thou hast gone by. Men toiling, and straining, and striving, Are glad, peradventure, for living ; I render for life no thanksgiving, Glad only to die. Too alike to me now are all changes, Naught gladdens, naught grieves. Alike, now, pale snow on the ranges, Pale gold on the sheaves. Alike now the hum of glad bees on Green boughs, and the sigh of sad trees on Sere uplands, the fall of the season, The fall of the leaves. Alike now each wind blows the breezes That kiss where they roam, The breath of the March wind that freezes 20 In the rime of the loam ; The storm-blast that lashes and scourges, And rends the white crests of the surges, As it sweeps with the thunder of dirges Across the sea foam. Alike now all rainfall and down-fall, Foul seasons and fair ; Let the rose on my patch or the thorn fall, I heed not, nor care ; Nor for grey light of dawn, nor for dun light Of dusk, nor for dazzle of sunlight At noon ; shall I seek light, or shun light ? Seek warmth or seek care ? Nor for breaking of fast neither grateful, Nor for quenching of thirst, In the dawn of the eventide hateful, In the noontide accurst, In the watch of the night sleep-forsaken Till that sleep comes, no watch shall re-waken, Be the best things of life never taken, Never feared be the worst. Skies laugh, and buds bloom, and birds warble At breaking of day ; Without and within, on grey marble, The light glimmers grey : O pale, silent mouth, surely this is The spot where death strikes and life misses : Warm lips, pressing cold lips, waste kisses Clay-cold as cold clay. Through sunset, and twilight, and nightfall, And night-watches bleak, We have lain thus. Now broad rays of light fall, And flicker, and streak ; The death-chamber glancing and shining, Where death and dead life lie reclining, My hand with her hand intertwining, My cheek to her cheek. 21 I adjure thee by days spent together, (So sad and so few), By the seasons of fair and foul weather, By the rose and the rue ; By the storms and the joys of past hours, By the thorns of the earth and the flowers, By the sun of the skies and the showers, By the mist and the dew, By the time that annihilates all things— Our woes and our crimes ; By the gath'ring of great things and small things At the end of all times, Let thy soul answer mine through the portal Of the grave, if the soul be immortal (As the wise men of all climes have taught all The fools of all climes). If these men speak truth I come quickly— My life does thee wrong : Dost thou languish in shades peopled thickly With phantoms that throng ? Have they known thee, my love ? Hast thou known one To welcome the stranger and lone one ? O loved one, O lost one, mine own one, I tarry not long. The flower that no more shall enwreath us Turns sunward : the dove Sails skyward : the grass is beneath us, The birds are above. Those skies, an illegible letter, Seem fairer and farther, scarce better Than earth to man, crushed by life's fetter When lifeless is love. And none can love twice, says the heathen, And none can twice die : More hopeful than these are, are we then, With hopes past the sky, Yon judge—will He swerve from just sentence For tardy, fear-stricken repentance ? 22 Ask those who came hither and went hence, But hope no reply. And He who shall judge us in light : How, then, shall I trust In Him, having sinned in His sight ? . . . Is jealous and just ; So priests taught me once, in their learning Perplexed, slower still in discerning : Are ashes to ashes returning, And dust seeking dust. Can life thrive when life's love expires ? Are life and love twain ? Men say so. Nay, all men are liars, Or all lives are vain. Let our dead loves and lives be forgotten With the ripening of fruits that are rotten ; So we loving fools, dust-begotten, Go dustward again. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

822:Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty) Consider a girl who keeps slipping off, arms limp as old carrots, into the hypnotist's trance, into a spirit world speaking with the gift of tongues. She is stuck in the time machine, suddenly two years old sucking her thumb, as inward as a snail, learning to talk again. She's on a voyage. She is swimming further and further back, up like a salmon, struggling into her mother's pocketbook. Little doll child, come here to Papa. Sit on my knee. I have kisses for the back of your neck. A penny for your thoughts, Princess. I will hunt them like an emerald. Come be my snooky and I will give you a root. That kind of voyage, rank as a honeysuckle. Once a king had a christening for his daughter Briar Rose and because he had only twelve gold plates he asked only twelve fairies to the grand event. The thirteenth fairy, her fingers as long and thing as straws, her eyes burnt by cigarettes, her uterus an empty teacup, arrived with an evil gift. She made this prophecy: The princess shall prick herself on a spinning wheel in her fifteenth year 33 and then fall down dead. Kaputt! The court fell silent. The king looked like Munch's Scream Fairies' prophecies, in times like those, held water. However the twelfth fairy had a certain kind of eraser and thus she mitigated the curse changing that death into a hundred-year sleep. The king ordered every spinning wheel exterminated and exorcised. Briar Rose grew to be a goddess and each night the king bit the hem of her gown to keep her safe. He fastened the moon up with a safety pin to give her perpetual light He forced every male in the court to scour his tongue with Bab-o lest they poison the air she dwelt in. Thus she dwelt in his odor. Rank as honeysuckle. On her fifteenth birthday she pricked her finger on a charred spinning wheel and the clocks stopped. Yes indeed. She went to sleep. The king and queen went to sleep, the courtiers, the flies on the wall. The fire in the hearth grew still and the roast meat stopped crackling. The trees turned into metal and the dog became china. They all lay in a trance, each a catatonic stuck in a time machine. 34 Even the frogs were zombies. Only a bunch of briar roses grew forming a great wall of tacks around the castle. Many princes tried to get through the brambles for they had heard much of Briar Rose but they had not scoured their tongues so they were held by the thorns and thus were crucified. In due time a hundred years passed and a prince got through. The briars parted as if for Moses and the prince found the tableau intact. He kissed Briar Rose and she woke up crying: Daddy! Daddy! Presto! She's out of prison! She married the prince and all went well except for the fear the fear of sleep. Briar Rose was an insomniac... She could not nap or lie in sleep without the court chemist mixing her some knock-out drops and never in the prince's presence. If if is to come, she said, sleep must take me unawares while I am laughing or dancing so that I do not know that brutal place where I lie down with cattle prods, the hole in my cheek open. Further, I must not dream for when I do I see the table set and a faltering crone at my place, her eyes burnt by cigarettes as she eats betrayal like a slice of meat. 35 I must not sleep for while I'm asleep I'm ninety and think I'm dying. Death rattles in my throat like a marble. I wear tubes like earrings. I lie as still as a bar of iron. You can stick a needle through my kneecap and I won't flinch. I'm all shot up with Novocain. This trance girl is yours to do with. You could lay her in a grave, an awful package, and shovel dirt on her face and she'd never call back: Hello there! But if you kissed her on the mouth her eyes would spring open and she'd call out: Daddy! Daddy! Presto! She's out of prison. There was a theft. That much I am told. I was abandoned. That much I know. I was forced backward. I was forced forward. I was passed hand to hand like a bowl of fruit. Each night I am nailed into place and forget who I am. Daddy? That's another kind of prison. It's not the prince at all, but my father drunkeningly bends over my bed, circling the abyss like a shark, my father thick upon me like some sleeping jellyfish. What voyage is this, little girl? 36 This coming out of prison? God help this life after death? ~ Anne Sexton,

823:Wormwood And Nightshade The troubles of life are many, The pleasures of life are few ; When we sat in the sunlight, Annie, I dreamt that the skies were blue— When we sat in the sunlight, Annie, I dreamt that the earth was green ; There is little colour, if any, 'Neath the sunlight now to be seen. Then the rays of the sunset glinted Through the blackwoods' emerald bough On an emerald sward, rose-tinted, And spangled, and gemm'd ;—and now The rays of the sunset redden With a sullen and lurid frown, From the skies that are dark and leaden, To earth that is dusk and brown. To right and to left extended The uplands are blank and drear, And their neutral tints are blended With the dead leaves sombre and sere : The cold grey mist from the still side Of the lake creeps sluggish and sure, Bare and bleak is the hill-side, Barren and bleak the moor. Bright hues and shapes intertwisted, Fair forms and rich colours ;—now They have flown—if e'er they existed— It matters not why or how. It matters not where or when, dear, They have flown, the blue and the green, I thought on what might be then, dear, Now I think on what might have been. What might have been !—words of folly ; What might be !—speech for a fool ; With mistletoe round me, and holly, 324 Scarlet and green, at Yule, With the elm in the place of the wattle, And in lieu of the gum, the oak, Years back I believed a little, And as I believed I spoke. Have I done with those childish fancies ? They suited the days gone by, When I pulled the poppies and pansies, When I hunted the butterfly, With one who has long been sleeping, A stranger to doubts and cares, And to sowing that ends in reaping Thistles, and thorns, and tares. What might be !—the dreams were scatter'd, As chaff is toss'd by the wind, The faith has been rudely shattered That listen'd with credence blind ; Things were to have been, and therefore They were, and they are to be, And will be ;—we must prepare for The doom we are bound to dree. Ah, me ! we believe in evil, Where once we believed in good, The world, the flesh, and the devil Are easily understood ; The world, the flesh, and the devil, Their traces on earth are plain ; Must they always riot and revel While footprints of man remain ? Talk about better and wiser, Wiser and worse are one, The sophist is the despiser Of all things under the sun ; Is nothing real but confusion ? Is nothing certain but death ? Is nothing fair save illusion ? Is nothing good that has breath ? 325 Some sprite, malignant and elfish, Seems present, whispering close, 'All motives of life are selfish, All instincts of life are gross ; And the song that the poet fashions, And the love-bird's musical strain, Are jumbles of animal passions, Refined by animal pain.' The restless throbbings and burnings That hope unsatisfied brings, The weary longings and yearnings For the mystical better things, Are the sands on which is reflected The pitiless moving lake, Where the wanderer falls dejected, By a thirst he never can slake. A child blows bubbles that glitter, He snatches them, they disperse ; Yet childhood's folly is better, And manhood's folly is worse ; Gilt baubles we grasp at blindly Would turn in our hands to dross ; 'Tis a fate less cruel than kindly Denies the gain and the loss. And as one who pursues a shadow, As one who hunts in a dream, As the child who crosses the meadow, Enticed by the rainbow's gleam, I—knowing the course was foolish, And guessing the goal was pain, Stupid, and stubborn, and mulish— Followed and follow again. The sun over Gideon halted, Holding aloof the night, When Joshua's arm was exalted, Yet never retraced his flight ; Nor will he turn back, nor can he, He chases the future fast ; 326 The future is blank—oh, Annie ! I fain would recall the past. There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine ; They are weary, yet uncomplaining— I know it, yet I repine ; I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret. You are no false ideal, Something is left of you, Present, perceptible, real, Palpable, tangible, true ; One shred of your broken necklace, One tress of your pale, gold hair, And a heart so utterly reckless, That the worst it would gladly dare. There is little pleasure, if any, In waking the past anew ; My days and nights have been many ; Lost chances many I rue— My days and nights have been many ; Now I pray that they be few, When I think on the hill-side, Annie, Where I dreamt that the skies were blue. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

824:Rapunzel A woman who loves a woman is forever young. The mentor and the student feed off each other. Many a girl had an old aunt who locked her in the study to keep the boys away. They would play rummy or lie on the couch and touch and touch. Old breast against young breast… Let your dress fall down your shoulder, come touch a copy of you for I am at the mercy of rain, for I have left the three Christs of Ypsilanti for I have left the long naps of Ann Arbor and the church spires have turned to stumps. The sea bangs into my cloister for the politicians are dying, and dying so hold me, my young dear, hold me… The yellow rose will turn to cinder and New York City will fall in before we are done so hold me, my young dear, hold me. Put your pale arms around my neck. Let me hold your heart like a flower lest it bloom and collapse. Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark. Give me your nether lips all puffy with their art and I will give you angel fire in return. We are two clouds 153 glistening in the bottle glass. We are two birds washing in the same mirror. We were fair game but we have kept out of the cesspool. We are strong. We are the good ones. Do not discover us for we lie together all in green like pond weeds. Hold me, my young dear, hold me. They touch their delicate watches one at a time. They dance to the lute two at a time. They are as tender as bog moss. They play mother-me-do all day. A woman who loves a woman is forever young. Once there was a witch's garden more beautiful than Eve's with carrots growing like little fish, with many tomatoes rich as frogs, onions as ingrown as hearts, the squash singing like a dolphin and one patch given over wholly to magic rampion, a kind of salad root a kind of harebell more potent than penicillin, growing leaf by leaf, skin by skin. as rapt and as fluid as Isadoran Duncan. However the witch's garden was kept locked and each day a woman who was with child looked upon the rampion wildly, fancying that she would die if she could not have it. Her husband feared for her welfare and thus climbed into the garden to fetch the life-giving tubers. Ah ha, cried the witch, whose proper name was Mother Gothel, 154 you are a thief and now you will die. However they made a trade, typical enough in those times. He promised his child to Mother Gothel so of course when it was born she took the child away with her. She gave the child the name Rapunzel, another name for the life-giving rampion. Because Rapunzel was a beautiful girl Mother Gothel treasured her beyond all things. As she grew older Mother Gothel thought: None but I will ever see her or touch her. She locked her in a tow without a door or a staircase. It had only a high window. When the witch wanted to enter she cried' Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair. Rapunzel's hair fell to the ground like a rainbow. It was as strong as a dandelion and as strong as a dog leash. Hand over hand she shinnied up the hair like a sailor and there in the stone-cold room, as cold as a museum, Mother Gothel cried: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and thus they played mother-me-do. Years later a prince came by and heard Rapunzel singing her loneliness. That song pierced his heart like a valentine but he could find no way to get to her. Like a chameleon he hid himself among the trees and watched the witch ascend the swinging hair. The next day he himself called out: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, and thus they met and he declared his love. What is this beast, she thought, with muscles on his arms like a bag of snakes? What is this moss on his legs? What prickly plant grows on his cheeks? What is this voice as deep as a dog? Yet he dazzled her with his answers. 155 Yet he dazzled her with his dancing stick. They lay together upon the yellowy threads, swimming through them like minnows through kelp and they sang out benedictions like the Pope. Each day he brought her a skein of silk to fashion a ladder so they could both escape. But Mother Gothel discovered the plot and cut off Rapunzel's hair to her ears and took her into the forest to repent. When the prince came the witch fastened the hair to a hook and let it down. When he saw Rapunzel had been banished he flung himself out of the tower, a side of beef. He was blinded by thorns that prickled him like tacks. As blind as Oedipus he wandered for years until he heard a song that pierced his heart like that long-ago valentine. As he kissed Rapunzel her tears fell on his eyes and in the manner of such cure-alls his sight was suddenly restored. They lived happily as you might expect proving that mother-me-do can be outgrown, just as the fish on Friday, just as a tricycle. The world, some say, is made up of couples. A rose must have a stem. As for Mother Gothel, her heart shrank to the size of a pin, never again to say: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and only as she dreamed of the yellow hair did moonlight sift into her mouth. ~ Anne Sexton,

825:Over his friend, Enkidu, Gilgamesh cried bitterly, roaming the wilderness. "I am going to die!am I not like Enkidu?! Deep sadness penetrates my core, I fear death, and now roam the wilderness I will set out to the region of Utanapishtim, son of Ubartutu,         and will go with utmost dispatch! When I arrived at mountain passes at nightfall,' I saw lions, and I was terrified! I raised my head in prayer to Sin, to the Great Lady of the gods my supplications poured           forth, 'Save me from !"' He was sleeping in the night, but awoke with a start with a dream: A warrior(!) enjoyed his life he raised his axe in his hand, drew the dagger from his sheath, and fell into their midst like an arrow. He struck and he scattered them, The name of the former The name of the second (26 lines are missing here, telling of the beginning of his quest.] The Scorpion-Beings The mountain is called Mashu. Then he reached Mount Mashu, which daily guards the rising and setting of the Sun, above which only the dome of the heavens reaches, and whose flank reaches as far as the Netherworld below, there were Scorpion-beings watching over its gate. Trembling terror they inspire, the sight of them is death, their frightening aura sweeps over the mountains. At the rising and setting they watch over the Sun. When Gilgamesh saw them, trembling terror blanketed his face, but he pulled himself together and drew near to them. The scorpion-being called out to his female: "He who comes to us, his body is the flesh of gods!" The scorpion-being, his female, answered him: "(Only) two-thirds of him is a god, one-third is human." The male scorpion-being called out, saying to the offspring of the gods: "Why have you traveled so distant a journey? Why have you come here to me, over rivers whose crossing is treacherous! I want to learn your I want to learn" [16 lines are missing here. When the text resumes Gilgamesh is speaking.] "I have come on account of my ancestor Utanapishtim, who joined the Assembly of the Gods, and was given eternal life. About Death and Life I must ask him!" The scorpion-being spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "Never has there been, Gilgamesh, a mortal man who could do that(?). No one has crossed through the mountains, for twelve leagues it is darkness throughout dense is the darkness, and light there is none. To the rising of the sun To the setting of the sun To the setting of the sun They caused to go out" [67 lines are missing, in which Gilgamesh convinces the scorpion-being to allow him passage.] "Though it be in deep sadness and pain, in cold or heat gasping after breath I will go on! Now! Open the Gate!" The scorpion-being spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "Go on, Gilgamesh, fear not! The Mashu mountains I give to you freely (!), the mountains, the ranges, you may traverse In safety may your feet carry you. The gate of the mountain" To the rising of the sun To the setting of the sun To the setting of the sun They caused to go out" [67 lines are missing, in which Gilgamesh convinces the scorpion-being to allow him passage.] "Though it be in deep sadness and pain, in cold or heat gasping after breath I will go on! Now! Open the Gate!" The scorpion-being spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "Go on, Gilgamesh, fear not! The Mashu mountains I give to you freely (!), the mountains, the ranges, you may traverse In safety may your feet carry you. The gate of the mountain" As soon as Gilgamesh heard this he heeded the utterances of the scorpion-being. Along the Road of the Sun L he journeyed one league he traveled, dense was the darkness, light there was none. Neither what lies ahead nor behind does it allow him to see. Two leagues he traveled, dense was the darkness, light there was none, neither what lies ahead nor behind does it allow him to see. [22 lines are missing here.] Four leagues he traveled, dense was the darkness, light there was none, neither what lies ahead nor behind does it allow him to see. Five leagues he traveled, dense was the darkness, light there was none, neither what lies ahead nor behind does it allow him to see. Six leagues he traveled, dense was the darkness, light there was none, neither what lies ahead nor behind does it allow him to see. Seven leagues he traveled .. dense was the darkness, light there was none, neither what lies ahead nor behind does it allow him to see. Eight leagues he traveled and cried out (!), dense was the darkness, light there was none, neither what lies ahead nor behind does it allow him to see. Nine leagues he traveled the North Wind. It licked at his face, dense was the darkness, light there was none, neither what lies ahead nor behind does it allow him to see. Ten leagues he traveled is near, four leagues. Eleven leagues he traveled and came out before the sun(rise). Twelve leagues he traveled and it grew brilliant. it bears lapis lazuli as foliage, bearing fruit, a delight to look upon. (25 lines are missing here, describing the garden in detail.] cedar agate of the sea lapis lazuli, like thorns and briars carnelian, rubies, hematite, like emeralds (!) of the sea, Gilgamesh on walking onward, raised his eyes and saw ~ Anonymous, The Epic of Gilgamesh TabletIX ,

826:Finis Exoptatus Boot and saddle, see, the slanting Rays begin to fall, Flinging lights and colours flaunting Through the shadows tall. Onward ! onward ! must we travel ? When will come the goal ? Riddle I may not unravel, Cease to vex my soul. Harshly break those peals of laughter From the jays aloft, Can we guess what they cry after ? We have heard them oft ; Perhaps some strain of rude thanksgiving Mingles in their song, Are they glad that they are living ? Are they right or wrong ? Right, 'tis joy that makes them call so, Why should they be sad ? Certes ! we are living also, Shall not we be glad ? Onward ! onward ! must we travel ? Is the goal more near ? Riddle we may not unravel, Why so dark and drear ? Yon small bird his hymn outpouring, On the branch close by, Recks not for the kestrel soaring In the nether sky, Though the hawk with wings extended Poises over head, Motionless as though suspended By a viewless thread. See, he stoops, nay, shooting forward With the arrow's flight, Swift and straight away to nor'ward Sails he out of sight. Onward ! onward ! thus we travel, 154 Comes the goal more nigh ? Riddle we may not unravel, Who shall make reply ? Ha ! Friend Ephraim, saint or sinner, Tell me if you can— Tho' we may not judge the inner By the outer man, Yet by girth of broadcloth ample, And by cheeks that shine, Surely you set no example In the fasting line— Could you, like yon bird, discov'ring, Fate as close at hand, As the kestrel o'er him hov'ring, Still, as he did, stand ? Trusting grandly, singing gaily, Confident and calm, Not one false note in your daily Hymn or weekly psalm ? Oft your oily tones are heard in Chapel, where you preach, This the everlasting burden Of the tale you teach : We are d———d, our sins are deadly, You alone are heal'd— 'Twas not thus their gospel redly Saints and martyrs seal'd. You had seem'd more like a martyr, Than you seem to us, To the beasts that caught a Tartar, Once at Ephesus ! Rather than the stout apostle Of the Gentiles, who, Pagan-like, could cuff and wrestle, They'd have chosen you. Yet, I ween, on such occasion, Your dissenting voice Would have been, in mild persuasion, 155 Raised against their choice ; Man of peace, and man of merit, Pompous, wise, and grave, Ephraim ! is it flesh or spirit You strive most to save ? Vain is half this care and caution O'er the earthly shell, We can neither baffle nor shun Dark-plumed Azrael. Onward ! onward ! still we wander, Nearer draws the goal ; Half the riddle's read, we ponder Vainly on the whole. Eastward ! in the pink horizon, Fleecy hillocks shame This dim range dull earth that lies on, Tinged with rosy flame. Westward ! as a stricken giant Stoops his bloody crest, And tho' vanquished, frowns defiant, Sinks the sun to rest. Distant, yet approaching quickly, From the shades that lurk, Like a black pall gathers thickly, Night, when none may work. Soon our restless occupation Shall have ceas'd to be ; Units ! in God's vast creation, Ciphers ! what are we ? Onward ! onward ! oh ! faint-hearted ; Nearer and more near Has the goal drawn since we started, Be of better cheer. Preacher ! all forbearance ask, for All are worthless found, Man must ay take man to task for Faults while earth goes round. On this dank soil thistles muster, Thorns are broadcast sown ; Seek not figs where thistles cluster, 156 Grapes where thorns have grown. Sun and rain and dew from heaven, Light and shade and air, Heat and moisture freely given, Thorns and thistles share. Vegetation rank and rotten Feels the cheering ray ; Not uncared for, unforgotten, We, too, have our day. Unforgotten ! though we cumber Earth, we work His will. Shall we sleep through night's long slumber Unforgotten still ? Onward ! onward ! toiling ever, Weary steps and slow, Doubting oft, despairing never, To the goal we go ! Hark ! the bells on distant cattle Waft across the range, Through the golden-tufted wattle, Music low and strange ; Like the marriage peal of fairies Comes the tinkling sound, Or like chimes of sweet St. Mary's On far English ground. How my courser champs the snaffle, And with nostril spread, Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle Fern leaves with his tread ; Cool and pleasant on his haunches Blows the evening breeze, Through the overhanging branches Of the wattle trees : Onward ! to the Southern Ocean, Glides the breath of Spring. Onward, with a dreary motion, I, too, glide and sing— Forward ! forward ! still we wander— Tinted hills that lie In the red horizon yonder— 157 Is the goal so nigh ? Whisper, spring-wind, softly singing, Whisper in my ear ; Respite and nepenthe bringing, Can the goal be near ? Laden with the dew of vespers, From the fragrant sky, In my ear the wind that whispers Seems to make reply— 'Question not, but live and labour Till yon goal be won, Helping every feeble neighbour, Seeking help from none ; Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone : Kindness in another's trouble. Courage in your own.' Courage, comrades, this is certain, All is for the best— There are lights behind the curtain— Gentiles let us rest. As the smoke-rack veers to seaward From 'the ancient clay', With its moral drifting leeward, Ends the wanderer's lay. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

827:Trees in groves, Kine in droves, In ocean sport the scaly herds, Wedge-like cleave the air the birds, To northern lakes fly wind-borne ducks, Browse the mountain sheep in flocks, Men consort in camp and town, But the poet dwells alone. God who gave to him the lyre, Of all mortals the desire, For all breathing men's behoof, Straitly charged him, "Sit aloof;" Annexed a warning, poets say, To the bright premium, Ever when twain together play, Shall the harp be dumb. Many may come, But one shall sing; Two touch the string, The harp is dumb. Though there come a million Wise Saadi dwells alone. Yet Saadi loved the race of men, No churl immured in cave or den, In bower and hall He wants them all, Nor can dispense With Persia for his audience; They must give ear, Grow red with joy, and white with fear, Yet he has no companion, Come ten, or come a million, Good Saadi dwells alone. Be thou ware where Saadi dwells. Gladly round that golden lamp Sylvan deities encamp, And simple maids and noble youth Are welcome to the man of truth. Most welcome they who need him most, They feed the spring which they exhaust: For greater need Draws better deed: But, critic, spare thy vanity, Nor show thy pompous parts, To vex with odious subtlety The cheerer of men's hearts. Sad-eyed Fakirs swiftly say Endless dirges to decay; Never in the blaze of light Lose the shudder of midnight; And at overflowing noon, Hear wolves barking at the moon; In the bower of dalliance sweet Hear the far Avenger's feet; And shake before those awful Powers Who in their pride forgive not ours. Thus the sad-eyed Fakirs preach; "Bard, when thee would Allah teach, And lift thee to his holy mount, He sends thee from his bitter fount, Wormwood; saying, Go thy ways, Drink not the Malaga of praise, But do the deed thy fellows hate, And compromise thy peaceful state. Smite the white breasts which thee fed, Stuff sharp thorns beneath the head Of them thou shouldst have comforted. For out of woe and out of crime Draws the heart a lore sublime." And yet it seemeth not to me That the high gods love tragedy; For Saadi sat in the sun, And thanks was his contrition; For haircloth and for bloody whips, Had active hands and smiling lips; And yet his runes he rightly read, And to his folk his message sped. Sunshine in his heart transferred Lighted each transparent word; And well could honoring Persia learn What Saadi wished to say; For Saadi's nightly stars did burn Brighter than Dschami's day. Whispered the muse in Saadi's cot; O gentle Saadi, listen not, Tempted by thy praise of wit, Or by thirst and appetite For the talents not thine own, To sons of contradiction. Never, sun of eastern morning, Follow falsehood, follow scorning, Denounce who will, who will, deny, And pile the hills to scale the sky; Let theist, atheist, pantheist, Define and wrangle how they list, Fierce conserver, fierce destroyer, But thou joy-giver and enjoyer, Unknowing war, unknowing crime, Gentle Saadi, mind thy rhyme. Heed not what the brawlers say, Heed thou only Saadi's lay. Let the great world bustle on With war and trade, with camp and town. A thousand men shall dig and eat, At forge and furnace thousands sweat, And thousands sail the purple sea, And give or take the stroke of war, Or crowd the market and bazaar. Oft shall war end, and peace return, And cities rise where cities burn, Ere one man my hill shall climb, Who can turn the golden rhyme; Let them manage how they may, Heed thou only Saadi's lay. Seek the living among the dead: Man in man is imprisoned. Barefooted Dervish is not poor, If fate unlock his bosom's door. So that what his eye hath seen His tongue can paint, as bright, as keen, And what his tender heart hath felt, With equal fire thy heart shall melt. For, whom the muses shine upon, And touch with soft persuasion, His words like a storm-wind can bring Terror and beauty on their wing; In his every syllable Lurketh nature veritable; And though he speak in midnight dark, In heaven, no star; on earth, no spark; Yet before the listener's eye Swims the world in ecstasy, The forest waves, the morning breaks, The pastures sleep, ripple the lakes, Leaves twinkle, flowers like persons be, And life pulsates in rock or tree. Saadi! so far thy words shall reach; Suns rise and set in Saadi's speech. And thus to Saadi said the muse; Eat thou the bread which men refuse; Flee from the goods which from thee flee; Seek nothing; Fortune seeketh thee. Nor mount, nor dive; all good things keep The midway of the eternal deep; Wish not to fill the isles with eyes To fetch thee birds of paradise; On thine orchard's edge belong All the brass of plume and song; Wise Ali's sunbright sayings pass For proverbs in the market-place; Through mountains bored by regal art Toil whistles as he drives his cart. Nor scour the seas, nor sift mankind, A poet or a friend to find; Behold, he watches at the door, Behold his shadow on the floor. Open innumerable doors, The heaven where unveiled Allah pours The flood of truth, the flood of good, The seraph's and the cherub's food; Those doors are men; the pariah kind Admits thee to the perfect Mind. Seek not beyond thy cottage wall Redeemer that can yield thee all. While thou sittest at thy door, On the desert's yellow floor, Listening to the gray-haired crones, Foolish gossips, ancient drones, Saadi, see, they rise in stature To the height of mighty nature, And the secret stands revealed Fraudulent Time in vain concealed, That blessed gods in servile masks Plied for thee thy household tasks. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, Saadi ,

828:Hear me, Lord of the Stars! For thee I have worshipped ever With stains and sorrows and scars, With joyful, joyful endeavour. Hear me, O lily-white goat! O crisp as a thicket of thorns, With a collar of gold for Thy throat, A scarlet bow for Thy horns! Here, in the dusty air, I build Thee a shrine of yew. All green is the garland I wear, But I feed it with blood for dew! After the orange bars That ribbed the green west dying Are dead, O Lord of the Stars, I come to Thee, come to Thee crying. The ambrosial moon that arose With breasts slow heaving in splendour Drops wine from her infinite snows. Ineffably, utterly, tender. O moon! ambrosial moon! Arise on my desert of sorrow That the Magical eyes of me swoon With lust of rain to-morrow! Ages and ages ago I stood on the bank of a river Holy and Holy and holy, I know, For ever and ever and ever! A priest in the mystical shrine I muttered a redeless rune, Till the waters were redder than wine In the blush of the harlot moon. I and my brother priests Worshipped a wonderful woman With a body lithe as a beast's Subtly, horribly human. Deep in the pit of her eyes I saw the image of death, And I drew the water of sighs From the well of her lullaby breath. She sitteth veiled for ever Brooding over the waste. She hath stirred or spoken never. She is fiercely, manly chaste! What madness made me awake From the silence of utmost eld The grey cold slime of the snake That her poisonous body held? By night I ravished a maid From her father's camp to the cave. I bared the beautiful blade; I dipped her thrice i' the wave; I slit her throat as a lamb's, That the fount of blood leapt high With my clamorous dithyrambs Like a stain on the shield of the sky. With blood and censer and song I rent the mysterious veil: My eyes gaze long and long On the deep of that blissful bale. My cold grey kisses awake From the silence of utmost eld The grey cold slime of the snake That her beautiful body held. But --- God! I was not content With the blasphemous secret of years; The veil is hardly rent While the eyes rain stones for tears. So I clung to the lips and laughed As the storms of death abated, The storms of the grevious graft By the swing of her soul unsated. Wherefore reborn as I am By a stream profane and foul In the reign of a Tortured Lamb, In the realm of a sexless Owl, I am set apart from the rest By meed of the mystic rune That reads in peril and pest The ambrosial moon --- the moon! For under the tawny star That shines in the Bull above I can rein the riotous car Of galloping, galloping Love; And straight to the steady ray Of the Lion-heart Lord I career, Pointing my flaming way With the spasm of night for a spear! O moon! O secret sweet! Chalcedony clouds of caresses About the flame of our feet, The night of our terrible tresses! Is it a wonder, then, If the people are mad with blindness, And nothing is stranger to men Than silence, and wisdom, and kindness? Nay! let him fashion an arrow Whose heart is sober and stout! Let him pierce his God to the marrow! Let the soul of his God flow out! Whether a snake or a sun In his horoscope Heaven hath cast, It is nothing; every one Shall win to the moon at last. The mage hath wrought by his art A billion shapes in the sun. Look through to the heart of his heart, And the many are shapes of one! An end to the art of the mage, And the cold grey blank of the prison! An end to the adamant age! The ambrosial moon is arisen. I have bought a lily-white goat For the price of a crown of thorns, A collar of gold for its throat, A scarlet bow for its horns. I have bought a lark in the lift For the price of a butt of sherry: With these, and God for a gift, It needs no wine to be merry! I have bought for a wafer of bread A garden of poppies and clover; For a water bitter and dead A foam of fire flowing over. From the Lamb and his prison fare And the owl's blind stupor, arise Be ye wise, and strong, and fair, And the nectar afloat in your eyes! Arise, O ambrosial moon By the strong immemorial spell, By the subtle veridical rune That is mighty in heaven and hell! Drip thy mystical dews On the tongues of the tender fauns In the shade of initiate yews Remote from the desert dawns! Satyrs and Fauns, I call. Bring your beauty to man! I am the mate for ye all' I am the passionate Pan. Come, O come to the dance Leaping with wonderful whips, Life on the stroke of a glance, Death in the stroke of the lips! I am hidden beyond, Shed in a secret sinew Smitten through by the fond Folly of wisdom in you! Come, while the moon (the moon!) Sheds her ambrosial splendour, Reels in the redeless rune Ineffably, utterly, tender! Hark! the appealing cry Of deadly hurt in the hollow: --- Hyacinth! Hyacinth! Ay! Smitten to death by Apollo. Swift, O maiden moon, Send thy ray-dews after; Turn the dolorous tune To soft ambiguous laughter! Mourn, O Maenads, mourn! Surely your comfort is over: All we laugh at you lorn. Ours are the poppies and clover! O that mouth and eyes, Mischievous, male, alluring! O that twitch of the thighs Dorian past enduring! Where is wisdom now? Where the sage and his doubt? Surely the sweat of the brow Hath driven the demon out. Surely the scented sleep That crowns the equal war Is wiser than only to weep --- To weep for evermore! Now, at the crown of the year, The decadent days of October, I come to thee, God, without fear; Pious, chaste, and sober. I solemnly sacrifice This first-fruit flower of wine For a vehicle of thy vice As I am Thine to be mine. For five in the year gone by I pray Thee give to me one; A love stronger than I, A moon to swallow the sun! May he be like a lily-white goat Crisp as a thicket of thorns, With a collar of gold for his throat, A scarlet bow for his horns! ELAINE CARR. ~ Aleister Crowley, The Priestess of Panormita ,

829:Scene 3. A Cliff On The Breton Coast, Overhanging The Sea 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, 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. 242 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; 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. 243 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, 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 244 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, 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. 245 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! ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

830:Look! What wonders the spring has wrought! The river bank is a paradise! Rose-embowered glades, Blossoming jasmine and hyacinth, And violets, the envy of the skies!. Rainbow colours transformed Into a chorus of rapturous sounds, And the harmony of flowers The hillside is carnation-red; In the languid haze, the air Seems drunk with the beauty of life! The brook, on the heights of the hill, Dances to its own music. The world is dizzy in a pageant of colour! My rosy-cheeked Cup-bearer! The voice of spring is the voice of life! But the spring lasts not for ever; So bring me the cup that tears all veils -- The wine that brightens life -- The wine that intoxicates the world -- The wine in which flows The music of everlasting life, The wine that reveals eternity's secret. Unveil the secrets, O Saqi. Look! The world has changed apace! New are the songs, and new is the music; The West's magic has dissolved; The West's magicians are bewildered; Old politics has lost its game; The world is tired of kings; Gone are the days of the rich; Gone is the jugglery of old; Awake is China's sleeping giant; The Himalayas' torrents are unleashed; Sinai is riven; Moses awaits the light divine. The Muslim says that God is One But his heart is Still a heathen: Culture, sufism, rites and rthetoric, All adore non- Arab idols; The truth was lost in trifles, And the nation was lost in conventions. The speaker's rhetoric is enchanting, But is devoid of passion; It is clothed in logic neat, But lost in a maze of words; The sufi, unique in the love of truth, Unique in the love of God, Was lost in un-Islamic thought; Was lost in the hierarchic quest; The fire of love is extinguished, And a Muslim is a heap of ashes, O Saqi! Give me the old wine again! Let the potent cup go round! Let me soar on the wings of love; Make my dust bright-pinioned; Make wisdom free; And make the young guide the old; Thou it is that nourishest. this nation; Thou it is that canst sustain it; Urge them to move, to stir; Give them Ali's heart; give them Siddiq's passion; Let the same old love pierce their hearts; Awaken in them a burning zeal; Let the stars throw down their spears, And let the earth's dwellers tremble Give the young a passion that consumes; Give them my vision, my love of God; Free my boat from the whirlpool's grip, And make it move forward-, Reveal to me the secrets of life, For thou knowest them all; The treasures of a fakir like me Are suffused, unsleeping eyes, And secret yearnings of the heart-, My anguished sighs at night, My solitude in the world of men, My hopes and my fears, My quest untiring, My nature an arena of thought A mirror of the world. My heart a battlefield of life, With armies of suspicion, And bastions of certitude; With these treasures I am More rich than the richest of all. Let the young join my throng, And let them find an anchor of hope. The sea of life has its ebb and flow-, In every atom's heart is the pulse of life; It manifests itself in the body, As a flame conceals a wave of smoke; Contact with the earth was harsh for it, But it liked the labour; It is in motion, and not in motion; Tired of the elements' shackles; A unity, imprisoned by plurality; But always unique, unequalled. It has made this dome of myriad glass; It has carved this pantheon. It does not repeat its craft For thou art not me, and I am not thou; It has created the world of men, And remains in solitude, Its brightness is seen in the stars, And in the lustre of pearls-, To it belong the wildernesses, The flowers and the thorns; Mountains sometimes are shaken by its might; It captures angels and nymphs; It makes the eagle pounce on a prey, And leave a blood-stained body. Every atom throbs with life; Rest is an illusion; Life's journey pauses not, For every moment is a new glory; Life, thou thinkest, is a mystery; Life is a delight in eternal flight; Life has seen many ups and downs; It loves a journey, not a goal. Movement is life's being; Movement is truth, pause is a mirage. Life's enjoyment is in perils, In facing ups and downs; In the world beyond Life stalked for death, But the impulse to procreate Peopled the world of man and beast. Flowers blossomed and dropped From this tree of life. Fools think life is ephemeral; Life renews itself for ever -- Moving fast as a flash, Moving to eternity in a breath; Time, a chain of days and nights, Is the ebb and flow of breath. This flow of breath is like a sword, Selfhood is its sharpness; Selfhood is the secret of life; It is the world's awakening, Selfhood is solitary, absorbed, An ocean enclosed in a drop; It shines in light and in darkness, Existent in, but away from, thee and me. The dawn of life behind it, eternity before, It has no frontiers before, no frontiers behind. Afloat on the river of time, Bearing the buffets of the waves, Changing the course of its quest, Shifting its glance from time to time; For it a hill is a grain of sand, Mountains are shattered by its blows; A journey is its beginning and end, And this is the secret of its being. It is the moon's beam, the spark in the flint, Colourless itself, though infused with colours, No concern has it with the calculus of space, With linear time's limits, with the finitude of life. It manifested itself in man's essence of dust, After an eternity of a strife to be born. It is in thy heart that Selfhood has an abode, As heaven has its abode in the cornea of thy eye. To one who guards his Selfhood, The living that demeans it, is poison; He accepts only a living, That keeps his self- esteem; Keep away from royal pomp, Keep thy Selfhood free; Thou shouldst bow in prayer, Not bow to a human being. This myriad-coloured world, Under the sentence of death, This world of sight and sound, I Where life means eating and drinking, Is Selfhood's initial stage; It is not thy abode, O traveller! This dust-bowl is not the source of thy fire; The world is for thee, not thou for the world. Demolish this illusion of' time and space; Selfhood is the Tiger of God, the world is its prey; The earth is its prey, the heavens are its prey; Other worlds there are, still awaiting birth, The earth-born are not the centre of all life; They all await thy assault, Thy cataclysmic thought and deed; Days and nights revolve, To reveal thy Selfhood to thee; Thou art the architect of the world. Words fail to convey the truth; Truth is the mirror, words its shade; Though the breath is a burning flame, The flame has limited bounds. 'If now I soar any farther, The vision will sear my wings.' ~ Allama Muhammad Iqbal, To the Saqi (from Baal-i-Jibreel) ,

831:The Boston Athenaeum Thou dear and well-loved haunt of happy hours, How often in some distant gallery, Gained by a little painful spiral stair, Far from the halls and corridors where throng The crowd of casual readers, have I passed Long, peaceful hours seated on the floor Of some retired nook, all lined with books, Where reverie and quiet reign supreme! Above, below, on every side, high shelved From careless grasp of transient interest, Stand books we can but dimly see, their charm Much greater that their titles are unread; While on a level with the dusty floor Others are ranged in orderly confusion, And we must stoop in painful posture while We read their names and learn their histories. The little gallery winds round about The middle of a most secluded room, Midway between the ceiling and the floor. A type of those high thoughts, which while we read Hover between the earth and furthest heaven As fancy wills, leaving the printed page; For books but give the theme, our hearts the rest, Enriching simple words with unguessed harmony And overtones of thought we only know. And as we sit long hours quietly, Reading at times, and at times simply dreaming, The very room itself becomes a friend, The confidant of intimate hopes and fears; A place where are engendered pleasant thoughts, And possibilities before unguessed Come to fruition born of sympathy. And as in some gay garden stretched upon A genial southern slope, warmed by the sun, The flowers give their fragrance joyously To the caressing touch of the hot noon; So books give up the all of what they mean Only in a congenial atmosphere, Only when touched by reverent hands, and read 259 By those who love and feel as well as think. For books are more than books, they are the life, The very heart and core of ages past, The reason why men lived, and worked, and died, The essence and quintessence of their lives. And we may know them better, and divine The inner motives whence their actions sprang, Far better than the men who only knew Their bodily presence, the soul forever hid From those with no ability to see. They wait here quietly for us to come And find them out, and know them for our friends; These men who toiled and wrote only for this, To leave behind such modicum of truth As each perceived and each alone could tell. Silently waiting that from time to time It may be given them to illuminate Dull daily facts with pristine radiance For some long-waited-for affinity Who lingers yet in the deep womb of time. The shifting sun pierces the young green leaves Of elm trees, newly coming into bud, And splashes on the floor and on the books Through old, high, rounded windows, dim with age. The noisy city-sounds of modern life Float softened to us across the old graveyard. The room is filled with a warm, mellow light, No garish colours jar on our content, The books upon the shelves are old and worn. 'T was no belated effort nor attempt To keep abreast with old as well as new That placed them here, tricked in a modern guise, Easily got, and held in light esteem. Our fathers' fathers, slowly and carefully Gathered them, one by one, when they were new And a delighted world received their thoughts Hungrily; while we but love the more, Because they are so old and grown so dear! The backs of tarnished gold, the faded boards, The slightly yellowing page, the strange old type, All speak the fashion of another age; The thoughts peculiar to the man who wrote 260 Arrayed in garb peculiar to the time; As though the idiom of a man were caught Imprisoned in the idiom of a race. A nothing truly, yet a link that binds All ages to their own inheritance, And stretching backward, dim and dimmer still, Is lost in a remote antiquity. Grapes do not come of thorns nor figs of thistles, And even a great poet's divinest thought Is coloured by the world he knows and sees. The little intimate things of every day, The trivial nothings that we think not of, These go to make a part of each man's life; As much a part as do the larger thoughts He takes account of. Nay, the little things Of daily life it is which mold, and shape, And make him apt for noble deeds and true. And as we read some much-loved masterpiece, Read it as long ago the author read, With eyes that brimmed with tears as he saw The message he believed in stamped in type Inviolable for the slow-coming years; We know a certain subtle sympathy, We seem to clasp his hand across the past, His words become related to the time, He is at one with his own glorious creed And all that in his world was dared and done. The long, still, fruitful hours slip away Shedding their influences as they pass; We know ourselves the richer to have sat Upon this dusty floor and dreamed our dreams. No other place to us were quite the same, No other dreams so potent in their charm, For this is ours! Every twist and turn Of every narrow stair is known and loved; Each nook and cranny is our very own; The dear, old, sleepy place is full of spells For us, by right of long inheritance. The building simply bodies forth a thought Peculiarly inherent to the race. And we, descendants of that elder time, Have learnt to love the very form in which 261 The thought has been embodied to our years. And here we feel that we are not alone, We too are one with our own richest past; And here that veiled, but ever smouldering fire Of race, which rarely seen yet never dies, Springs up afresh and warms us with its heat. And must they take away this treasure house, To us so full of thoughts and memories; To all the world beside a dismal place Lacking in all this modern age requires To tempt along the unfamiliar paths And leafy lanes of old time literatures? It takes some time for moss and vines to grow And warmly cover gaunt and chill stone walls Of stately buildings from the cold North Wind. The lichen of affection takes as long, Or longer, ere it lovingly enfolds A place which since without it were bereft, All stript and bare, shorn of its chiefest grace. For what to us were halls and corridors However large and fitting, if we part With this which is our birthright; if we lose A sentiment profound, unsoundable, Which Time's slow ripening alone can make, And man's blind foolishness so quickly mar. ~ Amy Lowell,

832:Easter Eve Hear me, Brother, gently met; Just a little, turn, not yet, Thou shalt laugh, and soon forget: Now the midnight draweth near. I have little more to tell; Soon with hallow stroke and knell, Thou shalt count the palace bell, Calling that the hour is here. Burdens black and strange to bear, I must tell, and thou must share, Listening with that stony stare, Even as many a man before. Years have lightly come and gone In their jocund unison, But the tides of life roll onThey remember now no more. Once upon a night of glee, In an hour of revelry, As I wandered restlessly, I beheld with burning eye, How a pale procession rolled Through a quarter quaint and old, With its banners and its gold, And the crucifix went by. Well I knew that body brave That was pierced and hung to save, But my flesh was now a grave For the soul that gnashed within. He that they were bearing by, With their banners white and high, He was pure, and foul was I, And his whiteness mocked my sin. Ah, meseemed that even he, Would not wait to look on me, In my years and misery, 85 Things that he alone could heal. In mine eyes I felt the flame Of a rage that naught could tame, And I cried and cursed his name, Till my brain began to reel. In a moment I was 'ware, How that many watching there, Fearfully with blanch and stare, Crossed themselves and shrank away; Then upon my reeling mind, Like a sharp blow from behind, Fell the truth, and left me blind, Hopeless now and all astray. O'er the city wandering wide, Seeking but some place to hide, Where the sounds of mirth had died, Through the shaken night I stole; From the ever-eddying stream Of the crowds that did but seem Like the processions in a dream To my empty echoing soul. Till I came at last alone To a hidden street of stone, Where the city's monotone On the silence fell no more. Then I saw how one in white With a footstep mute and light, Through the shadow of the night Like a spirit paced before. And a sudden stillness came Through my spirit and my frame, And a spell without a name Held me in his mystic track. Though his presence seemed so mild, Yet he led me like a child, With a yearning strange and wild, That I dared not turn me back. 86 Oh, I could not see his face, Nor behold his utmost grace, Yet I might not change my pace Fastened by a strange belief; For his steps were sad and slow, And his hands hung straight below, And his head was bowed, as though Pressed by some immortal grief. So I followed, yet not I Held alone that company: Every silent passer-by Paled and turned and joined with me; So we followed still and fleet, While the city street by street, Fell behind our rustling feet Like a deadened memory. Where the sound of sin and riot Broke upon the night's dim quiet, And the solemn bells hung nigh it Echoed from their looming towers; Where the mourners wept alway, Watching for the morning grey; Where the weary toiler lay, Husbanding the niggard hours; By the gates where all night long Guests in many a joyous throng, With the sound of dance and song, Dreamed in golden palaces; Still he passed, and door by door Opened with a pale outpour, And the revel rose no more Hushed in deeper phantasies. As we passed, the talk and stir Of the quiet wayfarer And the noisy banqueter Died upon the midnight dim. They that reeled in drunken glee Shrank upon the trembling knee, 87 And their jests died pallidly, As they rose and followed him. From the street and from the hall, From the flare of festival None that saw him stayed, but all Followed where his wonder would: And our feet at first so few Gathered as those white feet drew To a pallid multitude; And the hushed and awful beat Of our pale unnumbered feet Made a murmur strange and sweet, As we followed evermore. Now the night was almost passed, And the dawn was overcast, When the stranger stayed at last At a great cathedral door. Never word the stranger said, But he slowly raised his head, And the vast door opened By an unseen hand withdrawn; And in silence wave on wave, Like an army from the grave, Up the aisles and up the nave, All that spectral crowd rolled on. As I followed close behind, Knowledge like an awful wind Seemed to blow my naked mind Into darkness black and bare; Yet with longing wild and dim, And a terror vast and grim, Nearer still I pressed to him, Till I almost touched his hair. From the gloom so strange and eery, From the organ low and dreary, Rose the wailing miserere, By mysterious voices sung; 88 And a dim light shone, none knew, How it came, or whence it grew, From the dusky roof and through All the solemn spaces flung. But the stranger still passed on, Till he reached the alter stone, And with body white and prone Sunk his forehead to the floor; And I saw in my despair, Standing like a spirit there, How his head was bruised and bare, And his hand were clenched before, How his hair was fouled and knit With the blood that clotted it, Where the prickled thorns had bit In his crowned agony; In his hands so wan and blue, Leaning out, I saw the two Marks of where the nails pierced through, Once on gloomy Calvary. Then with trembling throat I owned All my dark sin unatoned, Telling it with lips that moaned, And methought an echo came From the bended crowd below, Each one breathing faint and low, Sins that none but he might know: 'Master I did curse thy name.' And I saw him slowly rise With his sad unearthly eyes, Meeting mine with meek surprise, And a voice came solemnly: 'Never more on mortal ground For they soul shall rest be found, But when bells at midnight sound Thou must rise and come with me.' Then my forehead smote the floor, 89 Swooning, and I knew no more, Till I heard the chancel door Open for the choristers: But the stranger's form was gone, And the church was dim and lone: Through the silence, one by one Stole the early worshippers. I an ageing now I know; That was many years ago, Yet or I shall rest below In the grave where none intrude, Night by night I roam the street, And that awful form I meet, And I follow pale and fleet, With a ghostly multitude. Every night I see his face, With its sad and burdened grace, And the torn and bloody trace, That in hands and feet he has. Once my life was dark and bad; Now its days are strange and sad, And the people call me mad: See, they whisper as they pass. Even now the echoes roll From the swinging bells that toll; It is midnight, now my soul Hasten, for he glideth by. Stranger, 'tis no phantasie: Look! my master waits for me Mutely, but thou canst not see With the mortal blinded eye. ~ Archibald Lampman,

833:Eden Bower It was Lilith the wife of Adam: (Sing Eden Bower!) Not a drop of her blood was human, But she was made like a soft sweet woman. Lilith stood on the skirts of Eden; (Alas the hour!) She was the first that thence was driven; With her was hell and with Eve was heaven. In the ear of the Snake said Lilith:— (Sing Eden Bower!) “To thee I come when the rest is over; A snake was I when thou wast my lover. “I was the fairest snake in Eden: (Alas the hour!) By the earth's will, new form and feature Made me a wife for the earth's new creature. “Take me thou as I come from Adam: (Sing Eden Bower!) Once again shall my love subdue thee; The past is past and I am come to thee. “O but Adam was thrall to Lilith! (Alas the hour!) All the threads of my hair are golden, And there in a net his heart was holden. “O and Lilith was queen of Adam! (Sing Eden Bower!) All the day and the night together My breath could shake his soul like a feather. “What great joys had Adam and Lilith!— (Alas the hour!) Sweet close rings of the serpent's twining, As heart in heart lay sighing and pining. “What bright babes had Lilith and Adam! (Sing Eden Bower!) Shapes that coiled in the woods and waters, Glittering sons and radiant daughters. “O thou God, the Lord God of Eden! (Alas the hour!) Say, was this fair body for no man, 95 That of Adam's flesh thou mak'st him a woman? “O thou Snake, the King-snake of Eden! (Sing Eden Bower!) God's strong will our necks are under, But thou and I may cleave it in sunder. “Help, sweet Snake, sweet lover of Lilith! (Alas the hour!) And let God learn how I loved and hated Man in the image of God created. “Help me once against Eve and Adam! (Sing Eden Bower!) Help me once for this one endeavour, And then my love shall be thine for ever! “Strong is God, the fell foe of Lilith: (Alas the hour!) Nought in heaven or earth may affright Him; But join thou with me and we will smite Him. “Strong is God, the great God of Eden: (Sing Eden Bower!) Over all He made He hath power; But lend me thou thy shape for an hour! “Lend thy shape for the love of Lilith! (Alas the hour!) Look, my mouth and my cheek are ruddy, And thou art cold, and fire is my body. “Lend thy shape for the hate of Adam! (Sing Eden Bower!) That he may wail my joy that forsook him, And curse the day when the bride-sleep took him. “Lend thy shape for the shame of Eden! (Alas the hour!) Is not the foe-God weak as the foeman When love grows hate in the heart of a woman? “Wouldst thou know the heart's hope of Lilith? (Sing Eden Bower!) Then bring thou close thine head till it glisten Along my breast, and lip me and listen. “Am I sweet, O sweet Snake of Eden? (Alas the hour!) Then ope thine ear to my warm mouth's cooing And learn what deed remains for our doing. “Thou didst hear when God said to Adam:— 96 (Sing Eden Bower!) ‘Of all this wealth I have made thee warden; Thou'rt free to eat of the trees of the garden: “‘Only of one tree eat not in Eden: (Alas the hour!) All save one I give to thy freewill,— The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.’ “O my love, come nearer to Lilith! (Sing Eden Bower!) In thy sweet folds bind me and bend me, And let me feel the shape thou shalt lend me. “In thy shape I'll go back to Eden; (Alas the hour!) In these coils that Tree will I grapple, And stretch this crowned head forth by the apple. “Lo, Eve bends to the breath of Lilith! (Sing Eden Bower!) O how then shall my heart desire All her blood as food to its fire! “Lo, Eve bends to the words of Lilith!— (Alas the hour!) ‘Nay, this Tree's fruit,—why should ye hate it, Or Death be born the day that ye ate it? “‘Nay, but on that great day in Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!) By the help that in this wise Tree is, God knows well ye shall be as He is.’ “Then Eve shall eat and give unto Adam; (Alas the hour!) And then they both shall know they are naked, And their hearts ache as my heart hath achèd. “Ay, let them hide `mid the trees of Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!) As in the cool of the day in the garden God shall walk without pity or pardon. “Hear, thou Eve, the man's heart in Adam! (Alas the hour!) Of his brave words hark to the bravest:— ‘This the woman gave that thou gavest.’ “Hear Eve speak, yea list to her, Lilith! (Sing Eden Bower!) Feast thine heart with words that shall sate it— 97 ‘This the serpent gave and I ate it.’ “O proud Eve, cling close to thine Adam, (Alas the hour!) Driven forth as the beasts of his naming By the sword that for ever is flaming. “Know, thy path is known unto Lilith! (Sing Eden Bower!) While the blithe birds sang at thy wedding, There her tears grew thorns for thy treading. “O my love, thou Love-snake of Eden! (Alas the hour!) O to-day and the day to come after! Loose me, love,—give breath to my laughter. “O bright Snake, the Death-worm of Adam! (Sing Eden Bower!) Wreathe thy neck with my hair's bright tether, And wear my gold and thy gold together! “On that day on the skirts of Eden, (Alas the hour!) In thy shape shall I glide back to thee, And in my shape for an instant view thee. “But when thou'rt thou and Lilith is Lilith, (Sing Eden Bower!) In what bliss past hearing or seeing Shall each one drink of the other's being! “With cries of ‘Eve!’ and ‘Eden!’ and ‘Adam!’ (Alas the hour!) How shall we mingle our love's caresses, I in thy coils, and thou in my tresses! “With those names, ye echoes of Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!) Fire shall cry from my heart that burneth,— ‘Dust he is and to dust returneth!’ “Yet to-day, thou master of Lilith,— (Alas the hour!) Wrap me round in the form I'll borrow And let me tell thee of sweet to-morrow. “In the planted garden eastward in Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!) Where the river goes forth to water the garden, The springs shall dry and the soil shall harden. “Yea, where the bride-sleep fell upon Adam, 98 (Alas the hour!) None shall hear when the storm-wind whistles Through roses choked among thorns and thistles. “Yea, beside the east-gate of Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!) Where God joined them and none might sever, The sword turns this way and that for ever. “What of Adam cast out of Eden? (Alas the hour!) Lo! with care like a shadow shaken, He tills the hard earth whence he was taken. “What of Eve too, cast out of Eden? (Sing Eden Bower!) Nay, but she, the bride of God's giving, Must yet be mother of all men living. “Lo, God's grace, by the grace of Lilith! (Alas the hour!) To Eve's womb, from our sweet to-morrow, God shall greatly multiply sorrow. “Fold me fast, O God-snake of Eden! (Sing Eden Bower!) What more prize than love to impel thee? Grip and lip my limbs as I tell thee! “Lo! two babes for Eve and for Adam! (Alas the hour!) Lo! sweet Snake, the travail and treasure,— Two men-children born for their pleasure! “The first is Cain and the second Abel: (Sing Eden Bower!) The soul of one shall be made thy brother, And thy tongue shall lap the blood of the other.” (Alas the hour!) ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

834:On Dante's Monument, 1818 Though all the nations now Peace gathers under her white wings, The minds of Italy will ne'er be free From the restraints of their old lethargy, Till our ill-fated land cling fast Unto the glorious memories of the Past. Oh, lay it to thy heart, my Italy, Fit honor to thy dead to pay; For, ah, their like walk not thy streets to-day! Nor is there one whom thou canst reverence! Turn, turn, my country, and behold That noble band of heroes old, And weep, and on thyself thy anger vent, For without anger, grief is impotent: Oh, turn, and rouse thyself for shame, Blush at the thought of sires so great, Of children so degenerate! Alien in mien, in genius, and in speech, The eager guest from far Went searching through the Tuscan soil to find Where he reposed, whose verse sublime Might fitly rank with Homer's lofty rhyme; And oh! to our disgrace he heard Not only that, e'er since his dying day, In other soil his bones in exile lay, But not a stone within thy walls was reared To him, O Florence, whose renown Caused thee to be by all the world revered. Thanks to the brave, the generous band, Whose timely labor from our land Will this sad, shameful stain remove! A noble task is yours, And every breast with kindred zeal hath fired, That is by love of Italy inspired. May love of Italy inspire you still, Poor mother, sad and lone, To whom no pity now 56 In any breast is shown, Now, that to golden days the evil days succeed. May pity still, ye children dear, Your hearts unite, your labors crown, And grief and anger at her cruel pain, As on her cheeks and veil the hot tears rain! But how can I, in speech or song, Your praises fitly sing, To whose mature and careful thought, The work superb, in your proud task achieved, Will fame immortal bring? What notes of cheer can I now send to you, That may unto your ardent souls appeal, And add new fervor to your zeal? Your lofty theme will inspiration give, And its sharp thorns within your bosoms lodge. Who can describe the whirlwind and the storm Of your deep anger, and your deeper love? Who can your wonder-stricken looks portray, The lightning in your eyes that gleams? What mortal tongue can such celestial themes In language fit describe? Away ye souls, profane, away! What tears will o'er this marble stone be shed! How can it fall? How fall your fame sublime, A victim to the envious tooth of Time? O ye, that can alleviate our woes, Sole comfort of this wretched land, Live ever, ye dear Arts divine, Amid the ruins of our fallen state, The glories of the past to celebrate! I, too, who wish to pay Due honor to our grieving mother, bring Of song my humble offering, As here I sit, and listen, where Your chisel life unto the marble gives. O thou, illustrious sire of Tuscan song, If tidings e'er of earthly things, Of _her_, whom thou hast placed so high, Could reach your mansions in the sky, I know, thou for thyself no joy wouldst feel, 57 For, with thy fame compared, Renowned in every land, Our bronze and marble are as wax and sand; If thee we _have_ forgotten, _can_ forget, May suffering still follow suffering, And may thy race to all the world unknown, In endless sorrows weep and moan. Thou for thyself no joy wouldst feel, But for thy native land, If the example of their sires Could in the cold and sluggish sons Renew once more the ancient fires, That they might lift their heads in pride again. Alas, with what protracted sufferings Thou seest her afflicted, that, e'en then Did seem to know no end, When thou anew didst unto Paradise ascend! Reduced so low, that, as thou seest her now, She then a happy Queen appeared. Such misery her heart doth grieve, As, seeing, thou canst not thy eyes believe. And oh, the last, most bitter blow of all, When on the ground, as she in anguish lay, It seemed, indeed, thy country's dying day! O happy thou, whom Fate did not condemn To live amid such horrors; who Italian wives didst not behold By ruffian troops embraced; Nor cities plundered, fields laid waste By hostile spear, and foreign rage; Nor works divine of genius borne away In sad captivity, beyond the Alps, The roads encumbered with the precious prey; Nor foreign rulers' insolence and pride; Nor didst insulting voices hear, Amidst the sound of chains and whips, The sacred name of Liberty deride. Who suffers not? Oh! at these wretches' hands, What have we not endured? From what unholy deed have they refrained? 58 What temple, altar, have they not profaned? Why have we fallen on such evil times? Why didst thou give us birth, or why No sooner suffer us to die, O cruel Fate? We, who have seen Our wretched country so betrayed, The handmaid, slave of impious strangers made, And of her ancient virtues all bereft; Yet could no aid or comfort give. Or ray of hope, that might relieve The anguish of her soul. Alas, my blood has not been shed for thee, My country dear! Nor have I died That thou mightst live! My heart with anger and with pity bleeds. Ah, bitter thought! Thy children fought and fell; But not for dying Italy, ah, no, But in the service of her cruel foe! Father, if this enrage thee not, How changed art thou from what thou wast on earth! On Russia's plains, so bleak and desolate, They died, the sons of Italy; Ah, well deserving of a better fate! In cruel war with men, with beasts, The elements! In heaps they strewed the ground; Half-clad, emaciated, stained with blood, A bed of ice for their sick frames they found. Then, when the parting hour drew near, In fond remembrance of that mother dear, They cried: 'Oh had we fallen by the foeman's hand, And not the victims of the clouds and storms, And for _thy_ good, our native land! Now, far from thee, and in the bloom of youth, Unknown to all, we yield our parting breath, And die for _her_, who caused our country's death!' The northern desert and the whispering groves, Sole witnesses of their lament, As thus they passed away! And their neglected corpses, as they lay Upon that horrid sea of snow exposed, 59 Were by the beasts consumed; The memories of the brave and good, And of the coward and the vile, Unto the same oblivion doomed! Dear souls, though infinite your wretchedness, Rest, rest in peace! And yet what peace is yours, Who can no comfort ever know While Time endures! Rest in the depths of your unmeasured woe, O ye, _her_ children true, Whose fate alone with hers may vie, In endless, hopeless misery! But she rebukes you not, Ah, no, but these alone, Who forced you with her to contend; And still her bitter tears she blends with yours, In wretchedness that knows no end. Oh that some pity in the heart were born, For her, who hath all other glories won, Of one, who from this dark, profound abyss, Her weak and weary feet could guide! Thou glorious shade, oh! say, Does no one love thy Italy? Say, is the flame that kindled thee extinct? And will that myrtle never bloom again, That hath so long consoled us in our pain? Must all our garlands wither in the dust? And shall we a redeemer never see, Who may, in part, at least, resemble thee? Are we forever lost? Is there no limit to our shame? I, while I live, will never cease to cry: 'Degenerate race, think of thy ancestry! Behold these ruins vast, These pictures, statues, temples, poems grand! Think of the glories of thy native land! If they thy soul cannot inspire or warn, Why linger here? Arise! Begone! This holy ground must not be thus defiled, And must no shelter give 60 Unto the coward and the slave! Far better were the silence of the grave!' ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,

835:A Dilettante Good friend, be patient: goes the world awry? well, can you groove it straight with all your pains? and, sigh or scold, and, argue or intreat, what have you done but waste your part of life on impotent fool's battles with the winds, that will blow as they list in spite of you? Fie, I am weary of your pettish griefs against the world that's given, like a child who whines and pules because his bread's not cake, because the roses have those ugly thorns that prick if he's not careful of his hands. Oh foolish spite: what talk you of the world, and mean the men and women and the sin? Oh friend, these all pass by, and God remains: and God has made a world that pleases Him, and when He wills then He will better it; let it suffice us as he wills it now. Nay, hush and look and listen. For this noon, this summer noon, replies "but be content," speaking in voices of a hundred joys. For lo, we, lying on this mossy knoll, tasting the vivid musk of sheltering pines, and balm of odorous flowers and sweet warm air; feeling the uncadenced music of slow leaves, and ripples in the brook athwart its stones, and birds that call each other in the brakes with sudden questions and smooth long replies, the gossip of the incessant grasshoppers, and the contented hum of laden bees; we, knowing (with the easy restful eye that, whichsoever way it turns, is filled with unexacting beauty) this smooth sky, blue with our English placid silvery blue, mottled with little lazy clouds, this stretch of dappled wealds and green and saffron slopes, and near us these gnarled elm-trunks barred with gold, 23 and ruddy pine-boles, where the slumbrous beams have slipped through the translucent leafy net to break the shimmering dimness of the wood; we, who, like licensed truants from light tasks which lightly can be banished out of mind, have all ourselves to give to idleness, were more unreasoning, if we make moan of miseries and toils and barrenness, than if we sitting at a feast told tales of famines and for the pity of them starved. Oh, life is good when, on such summer days, we linger in the dreamful paradise that lies at every door where so much space is left to garner in the languid air as grass may grow in and some verdurous tree, and some few yards of blueness and of clouds may stretch above, making immensity; when, lost out of our petty unit selves, the heart grows large in the grave trance of peace, and all things breathing, growing, are its kin, and all the fair and blossoming earth is home. And beauty is our lesson: for, look there, that exquisite curve and cluster of rich leaves, emerald and shadow, in that patch of sun, what is it but a nettle? And that knoll of woven green, where all fantastic grace of shaggy stems and lush and trailing shoots and all a thousand delicate varied tints, are mingled in a wanton symmetry, what is it but a thorn and bramble copse? And that far plain, on which, through all the day, change still grows lovelier and every cloud makes different softer dimness, every light an other-coloured glory, what is it? a desolate barren waste, marshland and moor. And in some other moment, when the rain spurts greyly downwards on the soddening fields, or the dank, autumn fog veils leaden skies, or the keen baleful east winds nip the bloom of frightened spring with bleak and parching chills, 24 the waste, the thorns, the nettle, each would seem cursed with the unloveliness of evil things. So beauty comes and goes: yet beauty is a message out of Heaven; can it speak from evil things? I know not; but I know that waste and thorns and nettle are to-day teachers of Love, a prospect not to change, for use, against a fifty miles of corn. Can we tell good from evil you and I? Oh, if the men and women of to-day seem ill or good to us, why, what know we? to-morrow they, or those who follow them, will seem another way; and are they changed, or are the eyes that see them? Let them be; are we divine that we should judge and rule? And they are not the world by several selves but in a gathered whole, and if that whole drift heavenward or hellward God can see, not we, who, ants hived in our colonies, count the world loam or gravel, stocked with flowers or weeds or cabbages, as we shall find within our own small ranges, and (being wise and full of care for all the universe), wonder, and blame, and theorize, and plan, by the broad guide of our experiences! 'Twere a neat world if levelled by the ants; no ridges, no rough gaps, all fined and soft. But I will rather use my antish wits in smoothing just my cell and at my doors than join in such heroic enterprise. Selfish, you call me? callous? Hear a tale. There was a little shallow brook that ran between low banks, scarcely a child's leap wide, feeding a foot or two of bordering grass and, here and there, some tufts of waterflowers and cresses, and tall sedge, rushes and reeds; and, where it bubbled past a poor man's cot, he and his household came and drank of it, 25 and all the children loved it for its flowers and counted it a playmate made for them: but, not far off, a sandy arid waste where, when a winged seed rested, or a bird would drop a grain in passing, and it grew, it presently must droop and die athirst, spread its scorched silent leagues to the fierce sun: and once a learned man came by and saw, and "lo," said he, "what space for corn to grow, could we send vivifying moistures here, while look, this wanton misdirected brook watering its useless weeds!" so had it turned, and made a channel for it through the waste: but its small waters could not feed that drought, and, in the wide unshadowed plain, it lagged, and shrank away, sucked upwards of the sun and downwards of the sands; so the new bed lay dry, and dry the old; and the parched reeds grew brown and dwined, the stunted rushes drooped, the cresses could not root in that slacked soil, the blossoms and the sedges died away, the greenness shrivelled from the dusty banks, the children missed their playmate and the flowers, and thirsted in hot noon-tides for the draught grown over precious now their mother went a half-mile to the well to fill her pails; and not two ears of corn the more were green. Tell me, what should I do? I take my life as I have found it, and the work it brings; well, and the life is kind, the work is light, shall I go fret and scorn myself for that? and must I sally forth to hack and hew at giants or at windmills, leave the post I could have filled, the work I could have wrought, for some magnificent mad enterprise, some task to lift a mountain, drain a sea, tread down a Titan, build a pyramid? No, let me, like a bird bred in the cage, that, singing its own self to gladness there, makes some who hear it gladder, take what part I have been born to, and make joy of it. 26 Grumbler, what are you muttering in your beard? "You've a bird-likeness too, to shew me in; I take life, as a sea-gull takes the sea, mere skimmingly." I say no otherwise; 'tis a wise bird the sea-gull, does but taste the hale and briny freshness of the spray: what would you have me do? plunge in and drown? Oh chiding friend, I am not of your kind, you strenuous souls who cannot think you live unless you feel your limbs, though 'twere by aches: great boisterous winds you are, who must rush on and sweep all on your way or drop and die, but I am only a small fluttering breeze to coax the roses open: let me be; perhaps I have my use no less than you. Ah well! How strange that you and I, who tread so same a path, perceive it so unlike. And which sees justly? Maybe both of us: or maybe one of us is colour-blind, and sees the tintings blurred, or sees them false, or does not see, so misses what they shew. Or likelier each of us is colour-blind, and sees the world his own way, fit for him: doubtless we afterwards shall understand the beauty and the pain are more alike. ~ Augusta Davies Webster,

836:I Ancestral Houses SURELY among a rich man s flowering lawns, Amid the rustle of his planted hills, Life overflows without ambitious pains; And rains down life until the basin spills, And mounts more dizzy high the more it rains As though to choose whatever shape it wills And never stoop to a mechanical Or servile shape, at others' beck and call. Mere dreams, mere dreams! Yet Homer had not Sung Had he not found it certain beyond dreams That out of life's own self-delight had sprung The abounding glittering jet; though now it seems As if some marvellous empty sea-shell flung Out of the obscure dark of the rich streams, And not a fountain, were the symbol which Shadows the inherited glory of the rich. Some violent bitter man, some powerful man Called architect and artist in, that they, Bitter and violent men, might rear in stone The sweetness that all longed for night and day, The gentleness none there had ever known; But when the master's buried mice can play. And maybe the great-grandson of that house, For all its bronze and marble, 's but a mouse. O what if gardens where the peacock strays With delicate feet upon old terraces, Or else all Juno from an urn displays Before the indifferent garden deities; O what if levelled lawns and gravelled ways Where slippered Contemplation finds his ease And Childhood a delight for every sense, But take our greatness with our violence? What if the glory of escutcheoned doors, And buildings that a haughtier age designed, The pacing to and fro on polished floors Amid great chambers and long galleries, lined With famous portraits of our ancestors; What if those things the greatest of mankind Consider most to magnify, or to bless, But take our greatness with our bitterness? II My House An ancient bridge, and a more ancient tower, A farmhouse that is sheltered by its wall, An acre of stony ground, Where the symbolic rose can break in flower, Old ragged elms, old thorns innumerable, The sound of the rain or sound Of every wind that blows; The stilted water-hen Crossing Stream again Scared by the splashing of a dozen cows; A winding stair, a chamber arched with stone, A grey stone fireplace with an open hearth, A candle and written page. Il Penseroso's Platonist toiled on In some like chamber, shadowing forth How the daemonic rage Imagined everything. Benighted travellers From markets and from fairs Have seen his midnight candle glimmering. Two men have founded here. A man-at-arms Gathered a score of horse and spent his days In this tumultuous spot, Where through long wars and sudden night alarms His dwindling score and he seemed castaways Forgetting and forgot; And I, that after me My bodily heirs may find, To exalt a lonely mind, Befitting emblems of adversity. III My Table Two heavy trestles, and a board Where Sato's gift, a changeless sword, By pen and paper lies, That it may moralise My days out of their aimlessness. A bit of an embroidered dress Covers its wooden sheath. Chaucer had not drawn breath When it was forged. In Sato's house, Curved like new moon, moon-luminous It lay five hundred years. Yet if no change appears No moon; only an aching heart Conceives a changeless work of art. Our learned men have urged That when and where 'twas forged A marvellous accomplishment, In painting or in pottery, went From father unto son And through the centuries ran And seemed unchanging like the sword. Soul's beauty being most adored, Men and their business took Me soul's unchanging look; For the most rich inheritor, Knowing that none could pass Heaven's door, That loved inferior art, Had such an aching heart That he, although a country's talk For silken clothes and stately walk. Had waking wits; it seemed Juno's peacock screamed. IV My Descendants Having inherited a vigorous mind From my old fathers, I must nourish dreams And leave a woman and a man behind As vigorous of mind, and yet it seems Life scarce can cast a fragrance on the wind, Scarce spread a glory to the morning beams, But the torn petals strew the garden plot; And there's but common greenness after that. And what if my descendants lose the flower Through natural declension of the soul, Through too much business with the passing hour, Through too much play, or marriage with a fool? May this laborious stair and this stark tower Become a roofless min that the owl May build in the cracked masonry and cry Her desolation to the desolate sky. The primum Mobile that fashioned us Has made the very owls in circles move; And I, that count myself most prosperous, Seeing that love and friendship are enough, For an old neighbour's friendship chose the house And decked and altered it for a girl's love, And know whatever flourish and decline These stones remain their monument and mine. V The Road at My Door An affable Irregular, A heavily-built Falstaffian man, Comes cracking jokes of civil war As though to die by gunshot were The finest play under the sun. A brown Lieutenant and his men, Half dressed in national uniform, Stand at my door, and I complain Of the foul weather, hail and rain, A pear-tree broken by the storm. I count those feathered balls of soot The moor-hen guides upon the stream. To silence the envy in my thought; And turn towards my chamber, caught In the cold snows of a dream. VI The Stare's Nest by My Window The bees build in the crevices Of loosening masonry, and there The mother birds bring grubs and flies. My wall is loosening; honey-bees, Come build in the empty house of the state. We are closed in, and the key is turned On our uncertainty; somewhere A man is killed, or a house burned, Yet no cleat fact to be discerned: Come build in he empty house of the stare. A barricade of stone or of wood; Some fourteen days of civil war; Last night they trundled down the road That dead young soldier in his blood: Come build in the empty house of the stare. We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare; More Substance in our enmities Than in our love; O honey-bees, Come build in the empty house of the stare. VII I see Phantoms of Hatred and of the Heart's Fullness and of the Coming Emptiness I climb to the tower-top and lean upon broken stone, A mist that is like blown snow is sweeping over all, Valley, river, and elms, under the light of a moon That seems unlike itself, that seems unchangeable, A glittering sword out of the east. A puff of wind And those white glimmering fragments of the mist sweep by. Frenzies bewilder, reveries perturb the mind; Monstrous familiar images swim to the mind's eye. "Vengeance upon the murderers,' the cry goes up, "Vengeance for Jacques Molay.' In cloud-pale rags, or in lace, The rage-driven, rage-tormented, and rage-hungry troop, Trooper belabouring trooper, biting at arm or at face, Plunges towards nothing, arms and fingers spreading wide For the embrace of nothing; and I, my wits astray Because of all that senseless tumult, all but cried For vengeance on the murderers of Jacques Molay. Their legs long, delicate and slender, aquamarine their eyes, Magical unicorns bear ladies on their backs. The ladies close their musing eyes. No prophecies, Remembered out of Babylonian almanacs, Have closed the ladies' eyes, their minds are but a pool Where even longing drowns under its own excess; Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness. The cloud-pale unicorns, the eyes of aquamarine, The quivering half-closed eyelids, the rags of cloud or of lace, Or eyes that rage has brightened, arms it has made lean, Give place to an indifferent multitude, give place To brazen hawks. Nor self-delighting reverie, Nor hate of what's to come, nor pity for what's gone, Nothing but grip of claw, and the eye's complacency, The innumerable clanging wings that have put out the moon. I turn away and shut the door, and on the stair Wonder how many times I could have proved my worth In something that all others understand or share; But O! ambitious heart, had such a proof drawn forth A company of friends, a conscience set at ease, It had but made us pine the more. The abstract joy, The half-read wisdom of daemonic images, Suffice the ageing man as once the growing boy. ~ William Butler Yeats, Meditations In Time Of Civil War ,

837: [Dedicated to General J.C.F. Fuller] Velvet soft the night-star glowed Over the untrodden road, Through the giant glades of yew Where its ray fell light as dew Lighting up the shimmering veil Maiden pure and aery frail That the spiders wove to hide Blushes of the sylvan bride Earth, that trembled with delight At the male caress of Night. Velvet soft the wizard trod To the Sabbath of his God. With his naked feet he made Starry blossoms in the glade, Softly, softly, as he went To the sombre sacrament, Stealthy stepping to the tryst In his gown of amethyst. Earlier yet his soul had come To the Hill of Martyrdom, Where the charred and crooked stake Like a black envenomed snake By the hangman's hands is thrust Through the wet and writhing dust, Never black and never dried Heart's blood of a suicide. He had plucked the hazel rod From the rude and goatish god, Even as the curved moon's waning ray Stolen from the King of Day. He had learnt the elvish sign; Given the Token of the Nine: Once to rave, and once to revel, Once to bow before the devil, Once to swing the thurible, Once to kiss the goat of hell, Once to dance the aspen spring, Once to croak, and once to sing, Once to oil the savoury thighs Of the witch with sea-green eyes With the unguents magical. Oh the honey and the gall Of that black enchanter's lips As he croons to the eclipse Mingling that most puissant spell Of the giant gods of hell With the four ingredients Of the evil elements; Ambergris from golden spar, Musk of ox from Mongol jar, Civet from a box of jade, Mixed with fat of many a maid Slain by the inchauntments cold Of the witches wild and old. He had crucified a toad In the basilisk abode, Muttering the Runes averse Mad with many a mocking curse. He had traced the serpent sigil In his ghastly virgin vigil. Sursum cor! the elfin hill, Where the wind blows deadly chill From the world that wails beneath Death's black throat and lipless teeth. There he had stood - his bosom bare - Tracing Life upon the Air With the crook and with the flail Lashing forward on the gale, Till its blade that wavereth Like the flickering of Death Sank before his subtle fence To the starless sea of sense. Now at last the man is come Haply to his halidom. Surely as he waves his rod In a circle on the sod Springs the emerald chaste and clean From the duller paler green. Surely in the circle millions Of immaculate pavilions Flash upon the trembling turf Like the sea-stars in the surf - Millions of bejewelled tents For the warrior sacraments. Vaster, vaster, vaster, vaster, Grows the stature of the master; All the ringed encampment vies With the infinite galaxies. In the midst a cubic stone With the Devil set thereon; Hath a lamb's virginal throat; Hath the body of a stoat; Hath the buttocks of a goat; Hath the sanguine face and rod Of a goddess and a god! Spell by spell and pace by pace! Mystic flashes swing and trace Velvet soft the sigils stepped By the silver-starred adept. Back and front, and to and fro, Soul and body sway and flow In vertiginous caresses To imponderable recesses, Till at last the spell is woven, And the faery veil is cloven That was Sequence, Space, and Stress Of the soul-sick consciousness. "Give thy body to the beasts! Give thy spirit to the priests! Break in twain the hazel rod On the virgin lips of God! Tear the Rosy Cross asunder! Shatter the black bolt of thunder! Suck the swart ensanguine kiss Of the resolute abyss!" Wonder-weft the wizard heard This intolerable word. Smote the blasting hazel rod On the scarlet lips of God; Trampled Cross and rosy core; Brake the thunder-tool of Thor; Meek and holy acolyte Of the priestly hells of spite, Sleek and shameless catamite Of the beasts that prowl the night! Like a star that streams from heaven Through the virgin airs light-riven, From the lift there shot and fell An admirable miracle. Carved minute and clean, a key Of purest lapis-lazuli More blue than the blind sky that aches (Wreathed with the stars, her torturing snakes), For the dead god's kiss that never wakes; Shot with golden specks of fire Like a virgin with desire. Look, the levers! fern-frail fronds Of fantastic diamonds, Glimmering with ethereal azure In each exquisite embrasure. On the shaft the letters laced, As if dryads lunar-chaste With the satyrs were embraced, Spelled the secret of the key: Sic pervenias. And he Went his wizard way, inweaving Dreams of things beyond believing. When he will, the weary world Of the senses closely curled Like a serpent round his heart Shakes herself and stands apart. So the heart's blood flames, expanding, Strenuous, urgent, and commanding; And the key unlocks the door Where his love lives evermore. She is of the faery blood; All smaragdine flows its flood. Glowing in the amber sky To ensorcelled porphyry She hath eyes of glittering flake Like a cold grey water-snake. She hath naked breasts of amber Jetting wine in her bed-chamber, Whereof whoso stoops and drinks Rees the riddle of the Sphinx. She hath naked limbs of amber Whereupon her children clamber. She hath five navels rosy-red From the five wounds of God that bled; Each wound that mothered her still bleeding, And on that blood her babes are feeding. Oh! like a rose-winged pelican She hath bred blessed babes to Pan! Oh! like a lion-hued nightingale She hath torn her breast on thorns to avail The barren rose-tree to renew Her life with that disastrous dew, Building the rose o' the world alight With music out of the pale moonlight! O She is like the river of blood That broke from the lips of the bastard god, When he saw the sacred mother smile On the ibis that flew up the foam of Nile Bearing the limbs unblessed, unborn, That the lurking beast of Nile had torn! So (for the world is weary) I These dreadful souls of sense lay by. I sacrifice these impure shoon To the cold ray of the waning moon. I take the forked hazel staff, And the rose of no terrene graff, And the lamp of no olive oil With heart's blood that alone may boil. With naked breast and feet unshod I follow the wizard way to God. Wherever he leads my foot shall follow; Over the height, into the hollow, Up to the caves of pure cold breath, Down to the deeps of foul hot death, Across the seas, through the fires, Past the palace of desires; Where he will, whether he will or no, If I go, I care not whither I go. For in me is the taint of the faery blood. Fast, fast its emerald flood Leaps within me, violent rude Like a bestial faun's beatitude. In me the faery blood runs hard: My sires were a druid, a devil, a bard, A beast, a wizard, a snake and a satyr; For - as my mother said - what does it matter? She was a fay, pure of the faery; Queen Morgan's daughter by an aery Demon that came to Orkney once To pay the Beetle his orisons. So, it is I that writhe with the twitch Of the faery blood, and the wizard itch To attain a matter one may not utter Rather than sink in the greasy splutter Of Britons munching their bread and butter; Ailing boys and coarse-grained girls Grown to sloppy women and brutal churls. So, I am off with staff in hand To the endless light of the nameless land. Darkness spreads its sombre streams, Blotting out the elfin dreams. I might haply be afraid, Were it not the Feather-maid Leads me softly by the hand, Whispers me to understand. Now (when through the world of weeping Light at last starrily creeping Steals upon my babe-new sight, Light - O light that is not light!) On my mouth the lips of her Like a stone on my sepulchre Seal my speech with ecstasy, Till a babe is born of me That is silent more than I; For its inarticulate cry Hushes as its mouth is pressed To the pearl, her honey breast; While its breath divinely ripples The rose-petals of her nipples, And the jetted milk he laps From the soft delicious paps, Sweeter than the bee-sweet showers In the chalice of the flowers, More intoxicating than All the purple grapes of Pan. Ah! my proper lips are stilled. Only, all the world is filled With the Echo, that drips over Like the honey from the clover. Passion, penitence, and pain Seek their mother's womb again, And are born the triple treasure, Peace and purity and pleasure. - Hush, my child, and come aloft Where the stars are velvet soft! ~ Aleister Crowley, The Wizard Way ,

838:When Lincoln Died ALREADY Appomattox day Seemed to our hearts an age away, Although the April-blossomed trees Were droning with the very bees That bumbled round the conference Where Lee resigned his long defence, And Grant’s new gentleness subdued The iron Southern fortitude. From smouldering leaves the smoky smell Wreathed round Virginian fields a spell Of homely aromatic haze, So like New Hampshire springtime days About the slopes of Moosilauke It numbed my homesick heart to talk, And when the bobolinks trilled “Rejoice!” My comrade could not trust his voice. We were two cavalrymen assigned To safeguard Pinckney womankind, Whose darkies rambled Lord knows where In some persuasion that they were Thenceforth, in ease, at public charge To live as gentlemen at large— A purpose which, they’d heard, the war Was made by “Massa Linkum” for. The pillared mansion, battle-wrecked, Yet stood with ivied front erect, Its mossy gables, shell-fire-torn, Were still in lordliness upborne Above the neighboring barns, well stored With war-time’s rich tobacco hoard; 107 But on the place, for food, was naught Save what our commissary brought To keep the planter’s folk alive Till Colonel Pinckney might arrive Paroled from northward, if his head Lay not among the prisoner dead. We’d captured him ten days before, When Richard Ewell’s veteran corps, Half-naked, starving, fought amain To save their dwindling wagon-train. Since they were weak and we were strong, The battle was not overlong. Again I see the prisoners stare Exultant at the orange glare Of sunlit flame they saw aspire Up from the train they gave to fire. They’d shred apart their hero flags To share the silk as heart-worn rags. The trampled field was strewn about With wreckage of the closing rout— Their dead, their wounded, rifles broke, Their mules and horses slain in yoke; Their torn-up records, widely spread, Fluttered around the muddy dead— So bitter did their hearts condemn To ruin all we took with them. Ten days before! The war was past, The Union saved, Peace come at last, And Father Abraham’s words of balm Gentling the war-worn States to calm. Of all the miracles he wrought That was the sweetest. Men who’d fought So long they’d learned to think in hate, And savor blood when bread they ate, 108 And hear their buried comrades wail, How long, O Lord, doth wrong prevail? List’ning alike, in blue or gray, Felt war’s wild passions soothed away. By homely touches in the air That morning was so sweet and rare That Father Abraham’s soul serene Seemed brooding over all the scene; And when we found the plough, I guess We were so tired of idleness Our farmer fingers yearned to hold The handles, and to sense the mould Turning the earth behind the knife. Jim gladdened as with freshened life;— “Say, John,” said he, “I’m feeling beat To know what these good folks will eat When you and I are gone. Next fall They’re sure to have no crop at all. All their tobacco’s confiscate By Washington—and what a state Of poverty they’re bound to see! Say, buddy, what if you and me Just hitch our cavalry horses now Up to this blamed Virginia plough, And run some furrows through the field? With commissary seed they’d yield A reasonable crop of corn.” “They will,” said I, “as sure’s you’re born!” Quickly we rigged, with rope and straps And saddle leathers—well, perhaps The Yankiest harness ever planned 109 95 To haul a plough through farming land. It made us kind of happy, too, Feeling like Father Abraham knew. The Pinckney place stood on a rise, And when we’d turned an end, our eyes Would see the mansion war had wrecked,— Such desolation! I suspect The women’s hearts were mourning sore; But not one tear we saw—they bore Composed the fortune fate had sent— But, O dear Lord, how still they went! I’ve seen such quiet in a shroud, Inscrutably resigned and proud. Yet, when we’d worked an hour or two, And plain was what we meant to do, Mother and daughters came kind-eyed,— “Soldiers—my soldier husband’s pride Will be to thank you well—till then We call you friendly, helpful men—” It seemed she stopped for fear of tears. She turned—they went—Oh, long the years Gone by since that brave lady spoke— And yet I hear the voice that broke. We watched them climb the lilac hill, Again the spring grew strangely still Ere, far upon the turnpike road, Across a clattering bridge, where flowed Through sand the stream of Pinckney Run, We heard the galloping of one Who, hidden by the higher ground, Pounded as fast as horse could pound. 110 Then—all again was still as death— Till up the slope, with laboring breath, A white steed rose—his rider gray Spurring like mad his staggering way. The man was old and tall and white, His glooming eyes looked dead to light, He rode with such a fateful air I felt a coldness thrill my hair, He rode as one hard hit rides out In horror from some battle rout, Bearing a cry for instant aid— That aspect made my heart afraid. [Page 63] The death-like rider drew no rein, Nor seemed to note us on the plain, 140 Nor seemed to know how weak in stride His horse strove up the long hillside; When down it lurched, on foot the man Up through the fringing lilacs ran, His left hand clutching empty air As if his sabre still hung there. ’T was plain as day that human blast Was Colonel Pinckney home at last, And we were free, since ordered so That with his coming we might go; Yet on we ploughed—the sun swung high, Quiet the earth and blue the sky— Silent we wrought, as men who wait Some half-imagined stroke of fate, While through the trembling shine came knells 111 Tolling from far-off Lynchburg bells. The solemn, thrilling sounds of gloom Bore portents of tremendous doom, On smoky zephyrs drifted by Shadows of hosts in charging cry, In fields where silence ruled profound Growling musketry echoed round, Pale phantom ranks did starkly pass Invisible across the grass, Flags ghosted wild in powder fume Till, miracled in memory’s room, Rang the old regiment’s rousing cheer For Father Abraham, smiling queer. ’T was when we turned a furrow’s end We saw a martial form descend From Mansion Hill the lilac way, Till in our field the veteran gray Stood tall and straight as at parade, And yet as one with soul dismayed. That living emblem of the South Faced us unblenching, though his mouth So quivered with the spoken word It seemed a tortured heart we heard;— “Soldiers”—he eyed us nobly when We stood to “attention”—“Soldiers—men, For this good work my thanks are due— But—men—O God—men, if you knew, Your kindly hands had shunned the plough— For hell comes up between us now!— Oh, sweet was peace—but gone is peace— 185 Murder and hate have fresh release!— 112 The deed be on the assassin’s head!— Men—Abraham Lincoln’s lying dead!” He steadied then—he told us through All of the tale that Lynchburg knew, 190 While dumbly raged my anguished heart With woe from pity wrenched apart, For, in the fresh red furrow, bled ’Twixt us and him the martyred dead. That precious crimson ran so fast 195 It merged in tinge with battles past,— Hatcher’s, Five Forks, The Wilderness, The Bloody Angle’s maddened stress; Down Cemetery Hill there poured Torrents that stormed to Kelly’s Ford, 200 And twice Manassas flung its flood To swell the four years’ tide of blood, And Sumter blazed, and Ellsworth fell, While memory flashed its gleams of hell. The colonel’s staring eyes declared 205 In visions wild as ours he shared, Until—dear Christ—with Thine was blent The death-transfigured President. [Page 65] Strange—strange—the crown of thorns he wore, His outspread hands were piercèd sore, And down his old black coat a tide Flowed from the javelin-wounded side; Yet ’t was his homely self there stood, And gently smiled across the blood, 113 And changed the mystic stream to tears That swept afar the angry years, And flung me down as falls a child Whose heart breaks out in weeping wild. Yet in that field we ploughed no more, We shunned the open Southern door, We saddled up, we rode away,— It’s that that troubles me to-day. Full thirty years to dust were turned Before my pondering soul had learned The blended vision there was sent In sign that our Belovèd meant;— Children who wrought so mild my will, Plough the long furrow kindly still, ’T is sweet the Father’s work to see Done for the memory of me. ~ Edward William Thomson,

839:"My friend, why are the Great Gods in conference? (In my dream) Anu, Enlil, and Shamash held a council, and Anu spoke to Enlil: 'Because they killed the Bull of Heaven and have also slain Humbaba, the one of them who pulled up the Cedar of the Mountain must die!' Enlil said:'Let Enkidu die, but Gilgamesh must not die!' Bur the Sun God of Heavenl replied to valiant Enlil: 'Was it not at my command that they killed the Bull of Heaven and Humbaba! Should now innocent Enkidu die!' Then Enlil became angry at Shamash, saying: 'it is you who are responsible because you traveled daily with them as their friend!"' Enkidu was lying (sick) in front of Gilgamesh. His tears flowing like canals, he (Gilgamesh) said: "O brother, dear brother, why are they absolving me instead of my brother)" Then Enkidu said "So now must 1 become a ghost, to sit with the ghosts of the dead, to see my dear brother nevermore!" In the Cedar Forest where the Great (Gods dwell, I did not kill the Cedar." Enkidu addressed Gilgamesh, saying to Gilgamesh, his Friend: "Come, Friend, The door Enkidu raised his eyes,and spoke to the door as if it were human: "You stupid wooden door, with no ability to understand ! Already at 10 leagues I selected the wood for you, until I saw the towering Cedar Your wood was without compare in my eyes. Seventy-two cubits was your height, 14 cubits your width, one cubit your thickness, your door post, pivot stone, and post cap I fashioned you, and I carried you; to Nippur Had I known, O door, that this would he your gratitude and this your gratitude, I would have taken an axe and chopped you up, and lashed your planks into in its I erected the and in Urukthey heard But yet, O door, I fashioned you, and I carried you to Nippur! May a king who comes after me reject you, may the god may he remove my name and set his own name there!" He ripped out.., threw down. He(Gilgamesh) kept listening to his words, and retorted quickly, Gilgamcsh listened to the words of Enkidu, his Friend, and his tears flowed. Gilgamesh addressed Enkidu, raying: 'Frend, the gods have given you a mind broad and Though it behooves you to be sensible, you keep uttering improper things! Why, my Friend, does your mind utter improper things? The dream is important but very frightening, your lips are buzzing like flies. Though there is much fear, the dream is very important. To the living they (the gods) leave sorrow, to the living the dream leaves pain. I will pray, and beseech the Great Gods, I will seek, and appeal to your god. Enlil, the Father of the Gods, Enlil the Counseloryou. I will fashion a statue of you of gold without measure, do nor worry, gold What Enlil says is not What he has said cannot go back, cannot, What he has laid down cannot go back, cannot My friend, of fate goes to mankind." a lust as dawn hegan to glow, Enkidu raised his head and cried out to Shamash, at the (first) gleam of the sun his tears poured forth. "I appeal to you, O Shamash, on behalf of my precious life (?), because of that notorious trapper who did not let me attain the same as my friend May the trapper not get enough to feed himself . May his profit be slashed, and his wages decrease, may be his share before you, may he not enter but go our of it like vapor(?)!" After he had cursed the trapper to his satisfaction, his heart prompted him to curse the Harlot. "Come now, Harlot, I am going to decree your fate, a fate that will never come to an end for eternity! I will curse you with a Great Curse, may my curses overwhelm you suddenly, in an instant! May you not be able to make a household, and not be able to love a child of your own (?)! May you not dwell in the of girls, may dregs of beer (?) stain your beautiful lap, may a drunk soil your festal robe with vomit(?), the beautiful (?) of the potter. May you never acquire anything of bright alabaster, may the judge. .. may shining silver(?), man's delight, not be cast into your house, may a gateway be where you rake your pleasure,' may a crossroad be your home may a wasteland be your sleeping place, may the shadow of the city wall be your place to stand, may the thorns and briars skin your feet, may both the drunk and the dry slap you on the cheek, in your city's streets (?), may owls nest in the cracks of your walls! may no parties take place present(?). and your filthy "lap" may.., be his(?) Because of me while I, blameless, you have against me. When Shamash heard what his mouth had uttered, he suddenly called out to him from the sky: "Enkidu, why are you cursing the harlot, Shamhat, she who fed you bread fit for a god, she who gave you wine fit for a king, she who dressed you in grand garments, and she who allowed you to make beautiful Gilgamesh your comrade! Now Gilgamesh is your beloved brother-friend! He will have you lie on a grand couch, will have you lie on a couch of honor. He will seat you in the seat of ease, the seat at his left, so that the princes of the world kiss your feet. He will have the people of Uruk go into mourning and moaning over you, will fill the happy people with woe over you. And after you he will let his body bear a filthy mat of hair, will don the skin of a lion and roam the wilderness." As soon as Enkidu heard the words of valiant Shamash, his agitated heart grew calm, his anger abated. Enkidu spoke to the harlot, saying: "Come, Shamhat, I will decree your fate for you. Let my mouth which has cursed you, now turn to bless you! May governors and nobles love you, May he who is one league away bite his lip (in anticipation of you), may he who is two leagues away shake our his locks (in preparation)! May the soldier not refuse you, but undo his buckle for you, may he give you rock crystal(!), lapis lazuli, and gold, may his gift to you be earrings of filigree(?). May his supplies be heaped up. May he bring you into the of the gods. May the wife, the mother of seven (children), be abandoned because of you!" Enkidu's innards were churning, lying there so alone. He spoke everything he felt, saying to his friend: "Listen, my friend, to the dream that I had last night. The heavens cried out and the earth replied, and I was standing between them. There appeared a man of dark visage his face resembled the Anzu," his hands were the paws of a lion, his nails the talons of an eagle! he seized me by my hair and overpowered me. I struck him a blow, but he skipped about like a jump rope, and then he struck me and capsizcd me like a raft, and trampled on me like a wild bull. He encircled my whole body in a clamp. 'Help me, my friend" (I cried), but you did not rescue me, you were afraid and did not.. ." "Then he and turned me into a dove, so that my arms were feathered like a bird. Seizing me, he led me down to the House of Darkness, the dwelling of Irkalla, to the house where those who enter do not come out, along the road of no return, to the house where those who dwell, do without light, where dirt is their drink, their food is of clay, where, like a bird, they wear garments of feathers, and light cannot be seen, they dwell in the dark, and upon the door and bolt, there lies dust. On entering the House of Dust, everywhere I looked there were royal crowns gathered in heaps, everywhere I listened, it was the bearers of crowns, who, in the past, had ruled the land, but who now served Anu and Enlil cooked meats, served confections, and poured cool water from waterskins. In the house of Dust that I entered there sat the high priest and acolyte, there sat the purification priest and ecstatic, there sat the anointed priests of the Great Gods. There sat Etana, there sat Sumukan, there sat Ereshkigal, the Queen of the Netherworld. Beletseri, the Scribe of the Netherworld, knelt before her, she was holding the tablet and was reading it out to her Ereshkigal. She raised her head when she saw me 'Who has taken this man?' [50 lines are missing here] I (?) who went through every difficulty, remember me and forget(?) not all that I went through with you. "My friend has had a dream that bodes ill?" The day he had the dream came to an end. Enkidu lies down a first day, a second day, that Enkidu in his bed; a third day and fourth day, that Enkidu in his bed; a fifth, a sixth, and seventh, that Enkidu in his bed; an eighth, a ninth, a tenth, that Enkidu in his bed. Enkidu's illness grew ever worse. Enkidu drew up from his bed, and called out to Gilgamesh: "My friend hates me while he talked with me in Uruk as I was afraid of the battle he encouraged me. My friend who saved me in battle has now abandoned me! I and you [About 20 lines are missing] At his noises Gilgamesh was roused Like a dove he moaned "May he not be held, in death O preeminent among men" To his friend "I will mourn him (?) I at his side" ~ Anonymous, The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet VII ,

840:I The cloud my bed is tinged with blood and foam. The vault yet blazes with the sun Writhing above the West, brave hippodrome Whose gladiators shock and shun As the blue night devours them, crested comb Of sleep's dead sea That eats the shores of life, rings round eternity! II So, he is gone whose giant sword shed flame Into my bowels; my blood's bewitched; My brain's afloat with ecstasy of shame. That tearing pain is gone, enriched By his life-spasm; but he being gone, the same Myself is gone Sucked by the dragon down below death's horizon. III I woke from this. I lay upon the lawn; They had thrown roses on the moss With all their thorns; we came there at the dawn, My lord and I; God sailed across The sky in's galleon of amber, drawn By singing winds While we wove garlands of the flowers of our minds. IV All day my lover deigned to murder me, Linking his kisses in a chain About my neck; demon-embroidery! Bruises like far-ff mountains stain The valley of my body of ivory! Then last came sleep. I wake, and he is gone; what should I do but weep? V Nay, for I wept enough --- more sacred tears! --- When first he pinned me, gripped My flesh, and as a stallion that rears, Sprang, hero-thewed and satyr-lipped; Crushed, as a grape between his teeth, my fears; Sucked out my life And stamped me with the shame, the monstrous word of wife. VI I will not weep; nay, I will follow him Perchance he is not far, Bathing his limbs in some delicious dim Depth, where the evening star May kiss his mouth, or by the black sky's rim He makes his prayer To the great serpent that is coiled in rapture there. VII I rose to seek him. First my footsteps faint Pressed the starred moss; but soon I wandered, like some sweet sequestered saint, Into the wood, my mind. The moon Was staggered by the trees; with fierce constraint Hardly one ray Pierced to the ragged earth about their roots that lay. VIII I wandered, crying on my Lord. I wandered Eagerly seeking everywhere. The stories of life that on my lips he squandered Grew into shrill cries of despair, Until the dryads frightened and dumfoundered Fled into space --- Like to a demon-king's was grown my maiden face! XI At last I came unto the well, my soul In that still glass, I saw no sign Of him, and yet --- what visions there uproll To cloud that mirror-soul of mine? Above my head there screams a flying scroll Whose word burnt through My being as when stars drop in black disastrous dew. X For in that scroll was written how the globe Of space became; of how the light Broke in that space and wrapped it in a robe Of glory; of how One most white Withdrew that Whole, and hid it in the lobe Of his right Ear, So that the Universe one dewdrop did appear. IX Yea! and the end revealed a word, a spell, An incantation, a device Whereby the Eye of the Most Terrible Wakes from its wilderness of ice To flame, whereby the very core of hell Bursts from its rind, Sweeping the world away into the blank of mind. XII So then I saw my fault; I plunged within The well, and brake the images That I had made, as I must make - Men spin The webs that snare them - while the knee Bend to the tyrant God - or unto Sin The lecher sunder! Ah! came that undulant light from over or from under? XIII It matters not. Come, change! come, Woe! Come, mask! Drive Light, Life, Love into the deep! In vain we labour at the loathsome task Not knowing if we wake or sleep; But in the end we lift the plumed casque Of the dead warrior; Find no chaste corpse therein, but a soft-smiling whore. XIV Then I returned into myself, and took All in my arms, God's universe: Crushed its black juice out, while His anger shook His dumbness pregnant with a curse. I made me ink, and in a little book I wrote one word That God himself, the adder of Thought, had never heard. XV It detonated. Nature, God, mankind Like sulphur, nitre, charcoal, once Blended, in one annihilation blind Were rent into a myriad of suns. Yea! all the mighty fabric of a Mind Stood in the abyss, Belching a Law for "That" more awful than for "This." XVI Vain was the toil. So then I left the wood And came unto the still black sea, That oily monster of beatitude! ('Hath "Thee" for "Me," and "Me" for "Thee!") There as I stood, a mask of solitude Hiding a face Wried as a satyr's, rolled that ocean into space. XVII Then did I build an altar on the shore Of oyster-shells, and ringed it round With star-fish. Thither a green flame I bore Of phosphor foam, and strewed the ground With dew-drops, children of my wand, whose core Was trembling steel Electric that made spin the universal Wheel. XVIII With that a goat came running from the cave That lurked below the tall white cliff. Thy name! cried I. The answer that gave Was but one tempest-whisper - "If!" Ah, then! his tongue to his black palate clave; For on soul's curtain Is written this one certainty that naught is certain! XIX So then I caught that goat up in a kiss. And cried Io Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan! Then all this body's wealth of ambergris, (Narcissus-scented flesh of man!) I burnt before him in the sacrifice; For he was sure - Being the Doubt of Things, the one thing to endure! XX Wherefore, when madness took him at the end, He, doubt-goat, slew the goat of doubt; And that which inward did for ever tend Came at the last to have come out; And I who had the World and God to friend Found all three foes! Drowned in that sea of changes, vacancies, and woes! XXI Yet all that Sea was swallowed up therein; So they were not, and it was not. As who should sweat his soul out through the skin And find (sad fool!) he had begot All that without him that he had left in, And in himself All he had taken out thereof, a mocking elf! XXII But now that all was gone, great Pan appeared. Him then I strove to woo, to win, Kissing his curled lips, playing with his beard, Setting his brain a-shake, a-spin, By that strong wand, and muttering of the weird That only I Knew of all souls alive or dead beneath the sky. XXIII So still I conquered, and the vision passed. Yet still was beaten, for I knew Myself was He, Himself, the first and last; And as an unicorn drinks dew From under oak-leaves, so my strength was cast Into the mire; For all I did was dream, and all I dreamt desire. XXIV More; in this journey I had clean forgotten The quest, my lover. But the tomb Of all these thoughts, the rancid and the rotten, Proved in the end to be my womb Wherein my Lord and lover had begotten A little child To drive me, laughing lion, into the wanton wild! XXV This child hath not one hair upon his head, But he hath wings instead of ears. No eyes hath he, but all his light is shed Within him on the ordered sphere Of nature that he hideth; and in stead Of mouth he hath One minute point of jet; silence, the lightning path! XXVI Also his nostrils are shut up; for he Hath not the need of any breath; Nor can the curtain of eternity Cover that head with life or death. So all his body, a slim almond-tree, Knoweth no bough Nor branch nor twig nor bud, from never until now. XXVII This thought I bred within my bowels, I am. I am in him, as he in me; And like a satyr ravishing a lamb So either seems, or as the sea Swallows the whale that swallows it, the ram Beats its own head Upon the city walls, that fall as it falls dead. XXVIII Come, let me back unto the lilied lawn! Pile me the roses and the thorns, Upon this bed from which he hath withdrawn! He may return. A million morns May follow that first dire daemonic dawn When he did split My spirit with his lightnings and enveloped it! XXIX So I am stretched out naked to the knife, My whole soul twitching with the stress Of the expected yet surprising strife, A martyrdom of blessedness. Though Death came, I could kiss him into life; Though Life came, I Could kiss him into death, and yet nor live nor die! XXX Yet I that am the babe, the sire, the dam, Am also none of these at all; For now that cosmic chaos of I AM Bursts like a bubble. Mystical The night comes down, a soaring wedge of flame Woven therein To be a sign to them who yet have never been. XXXI The universe I measured with my rod. The blacks were balanced with the whites; Satan dropped down even as up soared God; Whores prayed and danced with anchorites. So in my book the even matched the odd: No word I wrote Therein, but sealed it with the signet of the goat. XXXII This also I seal up. Read thou herein Whose eyes are blind! Thou may'st behold Within the wheel (that alway seems to spin All ways) a point of static gold. Then may'st thou out therewith, and fit it in That extreme spher Whose boundless farness makes it infinitely near. ~ Aleister Crowley, The Garden of Janus ,

841:The Star-Apple Kingdom There were still shards of an ancient pastoral in those shires of the island where the cattle drank their pools of shadow from an older sky, surviving from when the landscape copied such objects as 'Herefords at Sunset in the valley of the Wye.' The mountain water that fell white from the mill wheel sprinkling like petals from the star-apple trees, and all of the windmills and sugar mills moved by mules on the treadmill of Monday to Monday, would repeat in tongues of water and wind and fire, in tongues of Mission School pickaninnies, like rivers remembering their source, Parish Trelawny, Parish St David, Parish St Andrew, the names afflicting the pastures, the lime groves and fences of marl stone and the cattle with a docile longing, an epochal content. And there were, like old wedding lace in an attic, among the boas and parasols and the tea-colored daguerreotypes, hints of an epochal happiness as ordered and infinite to the child as the great house road to the Great House down a perspective of casuarinas plunging green manes in time to the horses, an orderly life reduced by lorgnettes day and night, one disc the sun, the other the moon, reduced into a pier glass: nannies diminished to dolls, mahogany stairways no larger than those of an album in which the flash of cutlery yellows, as gamboge as the piled cakes of teatime on that latticed bougainvillea verandah that looked down toward a prospect of Cuyp-like Herefords under a sky lurid as a porcelain souvenir with these words: 'Herefords at Sunset in the Valley of the Wye.' Strange, that the rancor of hatred hid in that dream of slow rivers and lily-like parasols, in snaps of fine old colonial families, curled at the edge not from age of from fire or the chemicals, no, not at all, but because, off at its edges, innocently excluded stood the groom, the cattle boy, the housemaid, the gardeners, 74 the tenants, the good Negroes down in the village, their mouth in the locked jaw of a silent scream. A scream which would open the doors to swing wildly all night, that was bringing in heavier clouds, more black smoke than cloud, frightening the cattle in whose bulging eyes the Great House diminished; a scorching wind of a scream that began to extinguish the fireflies, that dried the water mill creaking to a stop as it was about to pronounce Parish Trelawny all over, in the ancient pastoral voice, a wind that blew all without bending anything, neither the leaves of the album nor the lime groves; blew Nanny floating back in white from a feather to a chimerical, chemical pin speck that shrank the drinking Herefords to brown porcelain cows on a mantelpiece, Trelawny trembling with dusk, the scorched pastures of the old benign Custos; blew far the decent servants and the lifelong cook, and shriveled to a shard that ancient pastoral of dusk in a gilt-edged frame now catching the evening sun in Jamaica, making both epochs one. He looked out from the Great House windows on clouds that still held the fragrance of fire, he saw the Botanical Gardens officially drown in a formal dusk, where governors had strolled and black gardeners had smiled over glinting shears at the lilies of parasols on the floating lawns, the flame trees obeyed his will and lowered their wicks, the flowers tightened their fists in the name of thrift, the porcelain lamps of ripe cocoa, the magnolia's jet dimmed on the one circuit with the ginger lilies and left a lonely bulb on the verandah, and, had his mandate extended to that ceiling of star-apple candelabra, he would have ordered the sky to sleep, saying, I'm tired, save the starlight for victories, we can't afford it, leave the moon on for one more hour,and that's it. But though his power, the given mandate, extended from tangerine daybreaks to star-apple dusks, his hand could not dam that ceaseless torrent of dust 75 that carried the shacks of the poor, to their root-rock music, down the gullies of Yallahs and August Town, to lodge them on thorns of maca, with their rags crucified by cactus, tins, old tires, cartons; from the black Warieka Hills the sky glowed fierce as the dials of a million radios, a throbbing sunset that glowed like a grid where the dread beat rose from the jukebox of Kingston. He saw the fountains dried of quadrilles, the water-music of the country dancers, the fiddlers like fifes put aside. He had to heal this malarial island in its bath of bay leaves, its forests tossing with fever, the dry cattle groaning like winches, the grass that kept shaking its head to remember its name. No vowels left in the mill wheel, the river. Rock stone. Rock stone. The mountains rolled like whales through phosphorous stars, as he swayed like a stone down fathoms into sleep, drawn by that magnet which pulls down half the world between a star and a star, by that black power that has the assassin dreaming of snow, that poleaxes the tyrant to a sleeping child. The house is rocking at anchor, but as he falls his mind is a mill wheel in moonlight, and he hears, in the sleep of his moonlight, the drowned bell of Port Royal's cathedral, sees the copper pennies of bubbles rising from the empty eye-pockets of green buccaneers, the parrot fish floating from the frayed shoulders of pirates, sea horses drawing gowned ladies in their liquid promenade across the moss-green meadows of the sea; he heard the drowned choirs under Palisadoes, a hymn ascending to earth from a heaven inverted by water, a crab climbing the steeple, and he climbed from that submarine kingdom as the evening lights came on in the institute, the scholars lamplit in their own aquarium, he saw them mouthing like parrot fish, as he passed upward from that baptism, their history lessons, the bubbles like ideas which he could not break: Jamaica was captured by Penn and Venables, 76 Port Royal perished in a cataclysmic earthquake. Before the coruscating façades of cathedrals from Santiago to Caracas, where penitential archbishops washed the feet of paupers (a parenthetical moment that made the Caribbean a baptismal font, turned butterflies to stone, and whitened like doves the buzzards circling municipal garbage), the Caribbean was borne like an elliptical basin in the hands of acolytes, and a people were absolved of a history which they did not commit; the slave pardoned his whip, and the dispossessed said the rosary of islands for three hundred years, a hymn that resounded like the hum of the sea inside a sea cave, as their knees turned to stone, while the bodies of patriots were melting down walls still crusted with mute outcries of La Revolucion! 'San Salvador, pray for us,St. Thomas, San Domingo, ora pro nobis, intercede for us, Sancta Lucia of no eyes,' and when the circular chaplet reached the last black bead of Sancta Trinidad they began again, their knees drilled into stone, where Colon had begun, with San Salvador's bead, beads of black colonies round the necks of Indians. And while they prayed for an economic miracle, ulcers formed on the municipal portraits, the hotels went up, and the casinos and brothels, and the empires of tobacco, sugar, and bananas, until a black woman, shawled like a buzzard, climbed up the stairs and knocked at the door of his dream, whispering in the ear of the keyhole: 'Let me in, I'm finished with praying, I'm the Revolution. I am the darker, the older America.' She was as beautiful as a stone in the sunrise, her voice had the gutturals of machine guns across khaki deserts where the cactus flower detonates like grenades, her sex was the slit throat of an Indian, her hair had the blue-black sheen of the crow. She was a black umbrella blown inside out by the wind of revolution, La Madre Dolorosa, a black rose of sorrow, a black mine of silence, 77 raped wife, empty mother, Aztec virgin transfixed by arrows from a thousand guitars, a stone full of silence, which, if it gave tongue to the tortures done in the name of the Father, would curdle the blood of the marauding wolf, the fountain of generals, poets, and cripples who danced without moving over their graves with each revolution; her Caesarean was stitched by the teeth of machine guns,and every sunset she carried the Caribbean's elliptical basin as she had once carried the penitential napkins to be the footbath of dictators, Trujillo, Machado, and those whose faces had yellowed like posters on municipal walls. Now she stroked his hair until it turned white, but she would not understand that he wanted no other power but peace, that he wanted a revolution without any bloodshed, he wanted a history without any memory, streets without statues, and a geography without myth. He wanted no armies but those regiments of bananas, thick lances of cane, and he sobbed,'I am powerless, except for love.' She faded from him, because he could not kill; she shrunk to a bat that hung day and night in the back of his brain. He rose in his dream. ~ Derek Walcott,

842:ON VIRTUE THAT MAKES SMALL 1 When Zarathustra was on land again he did not proceed straight to his mountain and his cave, but he undertook many ways and questions and found out this and that; so that he said of himself, joking: "Behold a river that flows, winding and twisting, back to its source" For he wanted to determine what had happened to man meanwhile: whether he had become greater or smaller. And once he saw a row of new houses; then he was amazed and said: "What do these houses mean? Verily, no great soul put them up as its likeness. Might an idiotic child have taken them out of his toy box? Would that another child might put them back into his box! And these rooms and chambers-can men go in and out of them? They look to me as if made for silken dolls, or for stealthy nibblers who probably also let themselves be nibbled stealthily.' And Zarathustra stood still and reflected. At last he said sadly: "Everything has become smaller Everywhere I see lower gates: those who are of my kind probably still go through, but they must stoop. Oh, when shall I get back to my homeland, where I need no longer stoop-no longer stoop before those who are small And Zarathustra sighed and looked into the distance. On that same day, however, he made his speech on virtue that makes small. 168 2 I walk among this people and I keep my eyes open: they do not forgive me that I do not envy their virtues. They bite at me because I say to them: small people need small virtues-and because I find it hard to accept that small people are needed. I am still like the rooster in a strange yard, where the hens also bite at him; but I am not angry with the hens on that account. I am polite to them as to all small annoyances; to be prickly to what is small strikes me as wisdom for hedgehogs. They all speak of me when they sit around the fire in the evening; they speak of me, but no one thinks of me. This is the new stillness I have learned: their noise concerning me spreads a cloak over my thoughts. They noise among themselves: "What would this gloomy cloud bring us? Let us see to it that it does not bring us a plague." And recently a woman tore back her child when it wanted to come to me. "Take the children awayl" she cried; "such eyes scorch children's souls." They cough when I speak: they think that a cough is an argument against strong winds; they guess nothing of the roaring of my happiness. "We have no time yet for Zarathustra," they argue; but what matters a time that "has no time" for Zarathustra? And when they praise me, how could I go to sleep on their praise? Their praise is a belt of thorns to me: it scratches me even as I shake it off. And this too I have learned among them: he who gives praise poses as if he were giving back; in truth, however, he wants more gifts. Ask my foot whether it likes their way of lauding and luring Verily, after such a beat and ticktock it has no wish either to dance or to stand still. They would 169 laud and lure me into a small virtue; they would persuade my foot to the ticktock of a small happiness. I walk among this people and I keep my eyes open: they have become smaller, and they are becoming smaller and smaller; but this is due to their doctrine of happiness and virtue. For they are modest in virtue, too-because they want contentment. But only a modest virtue gets along with contentment. To be sure, even they learn in their way to stride and to stride forward: I call it their hobbling. Thus they become a stumbling block for everyone who is in a hurry. And many among them walk forward while looking backward with their necks stiff: I like running into them. Foot and eye should not lie nor give the lie to each other. But there is much lying among the small people. Some of them will, but most of them are only willed. Some of them are genuine, but most of them are bad actors. There are unconscious actors among them and involuntary actors; the genuine are always rare, especially genuine actors. There is little of man here; therefore their women strive to be mannish. For only he who is man enough will release the woman in woman. And this hypocrisy I found to be the worst among them, that even those who command, hypocritically feign the virtues of those who serve. "I serve, you serve, we serve"-thus prays even the hypocrisy of the rulers; and woe, if the first lord is merely the first servant! Alas, into their hypocrisies too the curiosity of my eyes flew astray; and well I guessed their fly-happiness and their humming around sunny windowpanes. So much kindness, so much weakness do I see; so much justice and pity, so much weakness. Round, righteous, and kind they are to each other, 170 round like grains of sand, righteous and kind with grains of sand. Modestly to embrace a small happiness-that they call "resignation"-and modestly they squint the while for another small happiness. At bottom, these simpletons want a single thing most of all: that nobody should hurt them. Thus they try to please and gratify everybody. This, however, is cowardice, even if it be called virtue. And if they once speak roughly, these small people, I hear only their hoarseness, for every draft makes them hoarse. They are clever, their virtues have clever fingers. But they lack fists, their fingers do not know how to hide behind fists. Virtue to them is that which makes modest and tame: with that they have turned the wolf into a dog and man himself into man's best domestic animal. '"e have placed our chair in the middle," your smirking says to me; "and exactly as far from dying fighters as from amused sows." That, however, is mediocrity, though it be called moderation. 3 I walk among this people and I let many a word drop; but they know neither how to accept nor how to retain. They are amazed that I did not come to revile venery and vice; and verily, I did not come to warn against pickpockets either. They are amazed that I am not prepared to teach wit to their cleverness and to whet it-as if they did not have enough clever boys, whose voices screech like slate pencils And when I shout, "Curse all cowardly devils in you who like to whine and fold their hands and pray," they shout, "Zarathustra is godless." And their teachers of 171 resignation shout it especially; but it is precisely into their ears that I like to shout, "Yes, I am Zarathustra the godless!" These teachers of resignation! Whatever is small and sick and scabby, they crawl to like lice; and only my nausea prevents me from squashing them. Well then, this is my preaching for their ears: I am Zarathustra the godless, who speaks: 'Who is more godless than I, that I may delight in his instruction?' I am Zarathustra the godless: where shall I find my equal? And all those are my equals who give themselves their own will and reject all resignation. I am Zarathustra the godless: I still cook every chance in my pot. And only when it has been cooked through there do I welcome it as my food. And verily, many a chance came to me domineeringly; but my will spoke to it still more domineeringly-and immediately it lay imploringly on its knees, imploring that it might find a hearth and heart in me, and urging with flattery, "Look, Zarathustra, how only a friend comes to his friend!" But why do I speak where nobody has my ears? And so let me shout it into all the winds: You are becoming smaller and smaller, you small people You are crumbling, you comfortable ones. You will yet perish of your many small virtues, of your many small abstentions, of your many small resignations. Too considerate, too yielding is your soil. But that a tree may become great, it must strike hard roots around hard rocks. What you abstain from too weaves at the web of all human future; your nothing too is a spider web and a spider, which lives on the blood of the future. And when you receive it is like stealing, you small men of virtue; but even among rogues, honor says, "One should steal only where one cannot rob." "It will give eventually"-that is another teaching of 172 resignation. But I tell you who are comfortable: it will take and will take more and more from youl Oh, that you would reject all halfhearted willing and would become resolute in sloth and deedl Alas, that you would understand my word: "Do whatever you will, but first be such as are able to will. "Do love your neighbor as yourself, but first be such as love themselves-loving with a great love, loving with a great contempt." Thus speaks Zarathustra the godless. But why do I speak where nobody has my ears? It is still an hour too early for me here. I am my own precursor among this people, my own cock's crow through dark lanes. But their hour will come! And mine will come tool Hourly, they are becoming smaller, poorer, more sterile-poor herbs poor soil and soon they shall stand there like dry grass and prairie and verily, weary of themselves and languishing even more than for water-for fire. 0 blessed hour of lightning! 0 secret before noonl I yet hope to turn them into galloping fires and heralds with fiery tongues-they shall yet proclaim with fiery tongues: It is coming, it is near-the great noonl Thus spoke Zarathustra. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON VIRTUE THAT MAKES SMALL ,

843:At The Gate THE monastery towers, as pure and fair As virgin vows, reached up white hands to Heaven; The walls, to guard the hidden heart of prayer, Were strong as sin, and white as sin forgiven; And there came holy men, by world's woe driven; And all about the gold-green meadows lay Flower-decked, like children dear that keep May-holiday. 'Here,' said the Abbot, 'let us spend our days, Days sweetened by the lilies of pure prayer, Hung with white garlands of the rose of praise; And, lest the World should enter with her snare-Enter and laugh and take us unaware With her red rose, her purple and her gold-Choose we a stranger's hand the porter's keys to hold.' They chose a beggar from the world outside To keep their worldward door for them, and he, Filled with a humble and adoring pride, Built up a wall of proud humility Between the monastery's sanctity And the poor, foolish, humble folk who came To ask for love and care, in the dear Saviour's name. For when the poor crept to the guarded gate To ask for succour, when the tired asked rest, When weary souls, bereft and desolate, Craved comfort, when the murmur of the oppressed Surged round the grove where prayer had made her nest, The porter bade such take their griefs away, And at some other door their bane and burden lay. 'For this,' he said, 'is the white house of prayer, Where day and night the holy voices rise Through the chill trouble of our earthly air, And enter at the gate of Paradise. Trample no more our flower-fields in such wise, Nor crave the alms of our deep-laden bough; The prayers of holy men are alms enough, I trow.' 67 So, seeing that no sick or sorrowing folk Came ever to be healed or comforted, The Abbot to his brothers gladly spoke: 'God has accepted our poor prayers,' he said; 'Over our land His answering smile is spread. He has put forth His strong and loving hand, And sorrow and sin and pain have ceased in all the land. 'So make we yet more rich our hymns of praise, Warm we our prayers against our happy heart. Since God hath taken the gift of all our days To make a spell that bids all wrong depart, Has turned our praise to balm for the world's smart, Fulfilled of prayer and praise be every hour, For God transfigures praise, and transmutes prayer, to power.' So went the years. The flowers blossomed now Untrampled by the dusty, weary feet; Unbroken hung the green and golden bough, For none came now to ask for fruit or meat, For ghostly food, or common bread to eat; And dreaming, praying, the monks were satisfied, Till, God remembering him, the beggar-porter died. When they had covered up the foolish head, And on the foolish loving heart heaped clay, 'Which of us, brothers, now,' the Abbot said, 'Will face the world, to keep the world away?' But all their hearts were hard with prayer, and 'Nay,' They cried, 'ah, bid us not our prayers to leave; Ah, father, not to-day, for this is Easter Eve'. And, while they murmured, to their midst there came A beggar saying, 'Brothers, peace, be still! I am your Brother, in our Father's name, And I will be your porter, if ye will, Guarding your gate with what I have of skill'. So all they welcomed him and closed the door, And gat them gladly back unto their prayers once more. But, lo! no sooner did the prayer arise, 68 A golden flame athwart the chancel dim, Then came the porter crying, 'Haste, arise! A sick old man waits you to tend on him; And many wait--a knight whose wound gapes grim, A red-stained man, with red sins to confess, A mother pale, who brings her child for you to bless'. The brothers hastened to the gate, and there With unaccustomed hand and voice they tried To ease the body's pain, the spirit's care; But ere the task was done, the porter cried: 'Behold, the Lord sets your gate open wide, For here be starving folk who must be fed, And little ones that cry for love and daily bread!' And, with each slow-foot hour, came ever a throng Of piteous wanderers, sinful folk and sad, And still the brothers ministered, but long The day seemed, with no prayer to make them glad; No holy, meditative joys they had, No moment's brooding-place could poor prayer find, Mid all those heart to heal and all those wounds to bind. And when the crowded, sunlit day at last Left the field lonely with its trampled flowers, Into the chapel's peace the brothers passed To quell the memory of those hurrying hours. 'Our holy time,' they said, 'once more is ours! Come, let us pay our debt of prayer and praise, Forgetting in God's light the darkness of man's ways!' But, ere their voices reached the first psalm's end, They heard a new, strange rustling round their house; Then came the porter: 'Here comes many a friend, Pushing aside your budding orchard boughs; Come, brothers, justify your holy vows. Here be God's patient, poor, four-footed things Seek healing at God's well, whence loving-kindness springs.' Then cried the Abbot in a vexed amaze, 'Our brethren we must aid, if 'tis God's will; But the wild creatures of the forest ways 69 Himself God heals with His Almighty skill. And charity is good, and love--but still God shall not look in vain for the white prayers We send on silver feet to climb the starry stairs; 'For, of all worthy things, prayer has most worth, It rises like sweet incense up to heaven, And from God's hand falls back upon the earth, Being of heavenly bread the accepted leaven. Through prayer is virtue saved and sin forgiven; In prayer the impulse and the force are found That bring in purple and gold the fruitful seasons round. 'For prayer comes down from heaven in the sun That giveth life and joy to all things made; Prayer falls in rain to make broad rivers run And quickens the seeds in earth's brown bosom laid; By prayer the red-hung branch is earthward weighed, By prayer the barn grows full, and full the fold, For by man's prayer God works his wonders manifold.' The porter seemed to bow to the reproof; But when the echo of the night's last prayer Died in the mystery of the vaulted roof, A whispered memory in the hallowed air, The Abbot turned to find him standing there. 'Brother,' he said, 'I have healed the woodland things And they go happy and whole--blessing Love's ministerings, 'And, having healed them, I shall crave your leave To leave you--for to-night I journey far. But I have kept your gate this Easter Eve, And now your house to heaven shines like a star To show the Angels where God's children are; And in this day your house has served God more Than in the praise and prayer of all its years before. 'Yet I must leave you, though I fain would stay, For there are other gates I go to keep Of houses round whose walls, long day by day, Shut out of hope and love, poor sinners weep-Barred folds that keep out God's poor wandering sheep-- 70 I must teach these that gates where God comes in Must not be shut at all to pain, or want, or sin. 'The voice of prayer is very soft and weak, And sorrow and sin have voices very strong; Prayer is not heard in heaven when those twain speak, The voice of prayer faints in the voice of wrong By the just man endured--oh, Lord, how long?-If ye would have your prayers in heaven be heard, Look that wrong clamour not with too intense a word. 'But when true love is shed on want and sin, Their cry is changed, and grows to such a voice As clamours sweetly at heaven to be let in-Such sound as makes the saints in heaven rejoice; Pure gold of prayer, purged of the vain alloys Of idleness--that is the sound most dear Of all the earthly sounds God leans from heaven to hear. 'Oh, brother, I must leave thee, and for me The work is heavy, and the burden great. Thine be this charge I lay upon thee: See That never again stands barred thy abbey gate; Look that God's poor be not left desolate; Ah me! that chidden my shepherds needs must be When my poor wandering sheep have so great need of me. 'Brother, forgive thy Brother if he chide, Thy Brother loves thee--and has loved--for see The nails are in my hands, and in my side The spear-wound; and the thorns weigh heavily Upon my brow--brother, I died for thee-For thee, and for my sheep that are astray, And rose to live for thee, and them, on Easter Day!' 'My Master and my Lord!' the Abbot cried. But, where that face had been, shone the new day; Only on the marble by the Abbot's side, Where those dear feet had stood, a lily lay-A lily white for the white Easter Day. He sought the gate--no sorrow clamoured there-And, not till then, he dared to sink his soul in prayer. 71 And from that day himself he kept the gate Wide open; and the poor from far and wide, The weary, and wicked, and disconsolate, Came there for succour and were not denied; The sick were healed, the repentant sanctified; And from their hearts rises more prayer and praise Than ever the abbey knew in all its prayer-filled days. And there the Heavenly vision comes no more, Only, each Easter now, a lily sweet Lies white and dewy on the chancel floor Where once had stood the beloved wounded feet; And the old Abbot feels the nearing beat Of wings that bring him leave at last to go And meet his Master, where the immortal lilies grow. ~ Edith Nesbit,

844:From House To House The first was like a dream through summer heat, The second like a tedious numbing swoon, While the half-frozen pulses lagged to beat Beneath a winter moon. 'But,' says my friend, 'what was this thing and where?' It was a pleasure-place within my soul; An earthly paradise supremely fair That lured me from the goal. The first part was a tissue of hugged lies; The second was its ruin fraught with pain: Why raise the fair delusion to the skies But to be dashed again? My castle stood of white transparent glass Glittering and frail with many a fretted spire, But when the summer sunset came to pass It kindled into fire. My pleasaunce was an undulating green, Stately with trees whose shadows slept below, With glimpses of smooth garden-beds between Like flame or sky or snow. Swift squirrels on the pastures took their ease, With leaping lambs safe from the unfeared knife; All singing-birds rejoicing in those trees Fulfilled their careless life. Woodpigeons cooed there, stockdoves nestled there; My trees were full of songs and flowers and fruit, Their branches spread a city to the air And mice lodged in their root. My heath lay farther off, where lizards lived In strange metallic mail, just spied and gone; Like darted lightnings here and there perceived But nowhere dwelt upon. 158 Frogs and fat toads were there to hop or plod And propagate in peace, an uncouth crew, Where velvet-headed rushes rustling nod And spill the morning dew. All caterpillars throve beneath my rule, With snails and slugs in corners out of sight; I never marred the curious sudden stool That perfects in a night. Safe in his excavated gallery The burrowing mole groped on from year to year; No harmless hedgehog curled because of me His prickly back for fear. Oft times one like an angel walked with me, With spirit-discerning eyes like flames of fire, But deep as the unfathomed endless sea, Fulfilling my desire: And sometimes like a snowdrift he was fair, And sometimes like a sunset glorious red, And sometimes he had wings to scale the air With aureole round his head. We sang our songs together by the way, Calls and recalls and echoes of delight; So communed we together all the day, And so in dreams by night. I have no words to tell what way we walked. What unforgotten path now closed and sealed; I have no words to tell all things we talked, All things that he revealed: This only can I tell: that hour by hour I waxed more feastful, lifted up and glad; I felt no thorn-prick when I plucked a flower, Felt not my friend was sad. 'To-morrow,' once I said to him with smiles: 159 'To-night,' he answered gravely and was dumb, But pointed out the stones that numbered miles And miles to come. 'Not so,' I said: 'to-morrow shall be sweet; To-night is not so sweet as coming days.' Then first I saw that he had turned his feet, Had turned from me his face: Running and flying miles and miles he went, But once looked back to beckon with his hand And cry: 'Come home, O love, from banishment: Come to the distant land.' That night destroyed me like an avalanche; One night turned all my summer back to snow: Next morning not a bird upon my branch, Not a lamb woke below,— No bird, no lamb, no living breathing thing; No squirrel scampered on my breezy lawn, No mouse lodged by his hoard: all joys took wing And fled before that dawn. Azure and sun were starved from heaven above, No dew had fallen, but biting frost lay hoar: O love, I knew that I should meet my love, Should find my love no more. 'My love no more,' I muttered stunned with pain: I shed no tear, I wrung no passionate hand, Till something whispered: 'You shall meet again, Meet in a distant land.' Then with a cry like famine I arose, I lit my candle, searched from room to room, Searched up and down; a war of winds that froze Swept through the blank of gloom. I searched day after day, night after night; Scant change there came to me of night or day: 'No more,' I wailed, 'no more:' and trimmed my light, 160 And gnashed but did not pray, Until my heart broke and my spirit broke: Upon the frost-bound floor I stumbled, fell, And moaned: 'It is enough: withhold the stroke. Farewell, O love, farewell.' Then life swooned from me. And I heard the song Of spheres and spirits rejoicing over me: One cried: 'Our sister, she hath suffered long.'— One answered: 'Make her see.'— One cried: 'Oh blessed she who no more pain, Who no more disappointment shall receive.'— One answered: 'Not so: she must live again; Strengthen thou her to live.' So while I lay entranced a curtain seemed To shrivel with crackling from before my face; Across mine eyes a waxing radiance beamed And showed a certain place. I saw a vision of a woman, where Night and new morning strive for domination; Incomparably pale, and almost fair, And sad beyond expression. Her eyes were like some fire-enshrining gem, Were stately like the stars, and yet were tender; Her figure charmed me like a windy stem Quivering and drooped and slender. I stood upon the outer barren ground, She stood on inner ground that budded flowers; While circling in their never-slackening round Danced by the mystic hours. But every flower was lifted on a thorn, And every thorn shot upright from its sands To gall her feet; hoarse laughter pealed in scorn With cruel clapping hands. 161 She bled and wept, yet did not shrink; her strength Was strung up until daybreak of delight: She measured measureless sorrow toward its length, And breadth, and depth, and height. Then marked I how a chain sustained her form, A chain of living links not made nor riven: It stretched sheer up through lighting, wind, and storm, And anchored fast in heaven. One cried: 'How long? yet founded on the Rock She shall do battle, suffer, and attain.'— One answered: 'Faith quakes in the tempest shock: Strengthen her soul again.' I saw a cup sent down and come to her Brimfull of loathing and of bitterness: She drank with livid lips that seemed to stir The depth, not make it less. But as she drank I spied a hand distil New wine and virgin honey; making it First bitter-sweet, then sweet indeed, until She tasted only sweet. Her lips and cheeks waxed rosy-fresh and young; Drinking she sang: 'My soul shall nothing want;' And drank anew: while soft a song was sung, A mystical slow chant. One cried: 'The wounds are faithful of a friend: The wilderness shall blossom as a rose.'— One answered: 'Rend the veil, declare the end, Strengthen her ere she goes.' Then earth and heaven were rolled up like a scroll; Time and space, change and death, had passed away; Weight, number, measure, each had reached its whole; The day had come, that day. Multitudes—multitudes—stood up in bliss, Made equal to the angels, glorious, fair; 162 With harps, palms, wedding-garments, kiss of peace And crowned and haloed hair. They sang a song, a new song in the height, Harping with harps to Him Who is Strong and True: They drank new wine, their eyes saw with new light, Lo, all things were made new. Tier beyond tier they rose and rose and rose So high that it was dreadful, flames with flames: No man could number them, no tongue disclose Their secret sacred names. As though one pulse stirred all, one rush of blood Fed all, one breath swept through them myriad-voiced, They struck their harps, cast down their crowns, they stood And worshipped and rejoiced. Each face looked one way like a moon new-lit, Each face looked one way towards its Sun of Love; Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it And knew no end thereof. Glory touched glory on each blessed head, Hands locked dear hands never to sunder more: These were the new-begotten from the dead Whom the great birthday bore. Heart answered heart, soul answered soul at rest, Double against each other, filled, sufficed: All loving, loved of all; but loving best And best beloved of Christ. I saw that one who lost her love in pain, Who trod on thorns, who drank the loathsome cup; The lost in night, in day was found again; The fallen was lifted up. They stood together in the blessed noon, They sang together through the length of days; Each loving face bent Sunwards like a moon New-lit with love and praise. 163 Therefore, O friend, I would not if I might Rebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyed One time to dwell: my soul shall walk in white, Cast down but not destroyed. Therefore in patience I possess my soul; Yea, therefore as a flint I set my face, To pluck down, to build up again the whole— But in a distant place. These thorns are sharp, yet I can tread on them; This cup is loathsome, yet He makes it sweet: My face is steadfast toward Jerusalem, My heart remembers it. I lift the hanging hands, the feeble knees— I, precious more than seven times molten gold— Until the day when from his storehouses God shall bring new and old; Beauty for ashes, oil of joy for grief, Garment of praise for spirit of heaviness: Although to-day I fade as doth a leaf, I languish and grow less. Although to-day He prunes my twigs with pain, Yet doth His blood nourish and warm my root: To-morrow I shall put forth buds again And clothe myself with fruit. Although to-day I walk in tedious ways, To-day His staff is turned into a rod, Yet will I wait for Him the appointed days And stay upon my God. ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

845:Ye Idyll Of Ye Hippopopotamus With a Methodist hymn in his musical throat, The Sun was emitting his ultimate note; His quivering larynx enwrinkled the sea Like an Ichthyosaurian blowing his tea; When sweetly and pensively rattled and rang This plaint which an Hippopopotamus sang: 'O, Camomile, Calabash, Cartilage-pie, Spread for my spirit a peppermint fry; Crown me with doughnuts, and drape me with cheese, Settle my soul with a codliver sneeze. Lo, how I stand on my head and repineLollipop Lumpkin can never be mine!' Down sank the Sun with a kick and a plunge, Up from the wave rose the head of a Sponge; Ropes in his ringlets, eggs in his eyes, Tip-tilted nose in a way to surprise. These the conundrums he flung to the breeze, The answers that Echo returned to him these: 'Cobblestone, Cobblestone, why do you sighWhy do you turn on the tears?' 'My mother is crazy on strawberry jam, And my father has petrified ears.' 'Liverwort, Liverwort, why do you droopWhy do you snuffle and scowl?' 'My brother has cockle-burs into his eyes, And my sister has married an owl.' 'Simia, Simia, why do you laughWhy do you cackle and quake?' 'My son has a pollywog stuck in his throat, And my daughter has bitten a snake.' 660 Slow sank the head of the Sponge out of sight, Soaken with sea-water-then it was night. The Moon had now risen for dinner to dress, When sweetly the Pachyderm sang from his nest; He sang through a pestle of silvery shape, Encrusted with custard-empurpled with crape; And this was the burden he bore on his lips, And blew to the listening Sturgeon that sips From the fountain of opium under the lobes Of the mountain whose summit in buffalo robes The winter envelops, as Venus adorns An elephant's trunk with a chaplet of thorns: 'Chasing mastodons through marshes upon stilts of light ratan, Hunting spiders with a shotgun and mosquitoes with an axe, Plucking peanuts ready roasted from the branches of the oak, Waking echoes in the forest with our hymns of blessed bosh, We roamed-my love and I. By the margin of the fountain spouting thick with clabbered milk, Under spreading boughs of bass-wood all alive with cooing toads, Loafing listlessly on bowlders of octagonal design, Standing gracefully inverted with our toes together knit, We loved-my love and I.' Hippopopotamus comforts his heart Biting half-moons out of strawberry tart. Epitaph on George Francis Train. (Inscribed on a Pork-barrel.) Beneath this casket rots unknown A Thing that merits not a stone, Save that by passing urchin cast; Whose fame and virtues we express By transient urn of emptiness, With apt inscription (to its past Relating-and to his): 'Prime Mess.' No honour had this infidel, That doth not appertain, as well, To altered caitiff on the drop; No wit that would not likewise pass For wisdom in the famished ass 661 Who breaks his neck a weed to crop, When tethered in the luscious grass. And now, thank God, his hateful name Shall never rescued be from shame, Though seas of venal ink be shed; No sophistry shall reconcile With sympathy for Erin's Isle, Or sorrow for her patriot dead, The weeping of this crocodile. Life's incongruity is past, And dirt to dirt is seen at last, The worm of worm afoul doth fall. The sexton tolls his solemn bell For scoundrel dead and gone to-well, It matters not, it can't recall This convict from his final cell. Jerusalem, Old and New. Didymus Dunkleton Doty Don John Is a parson of high degree; He holds forth of Sundays to marvelling crowds Who wonder how vice can still be When smitten so stoutly by Didymus DonDisciple of Calvin is he. But sinners still laugh at his talk of the New Jerusalem-ha-ha, te-he! And biting their thumbs at the doughty Don-John This parson of high degreeThey think of the streets of a village they know, Where horses still sink to the knee, Contrasting its muck with the pavement of gold That's laid in the other citee. They think of the sign that still swings, uneffaced By winds from the salt, salt sea, Which tells where he trafficked in tipple, of yoreDon Dunkleton Johnny, D. D. Didymus Dunkleton Doty Don John Still plays on his fiddle-D. D., His lambkins still bleat in full psalmody sweet, And the devil still pitches the key. Communing with Nature. One evening I sat on a heavenward hill, The winds were asleep and all nature was still, 662 Wee children came round me to play at my knee, As my mind floated rudderless over the sea. I put out one hand to caress them, but held With the other my nose, for these cherubim smelled. I cast a few glances upon the old sun; He was red in the face from the race he had run, But he seemed to be doing, for aught I could see, Quite well without any assistance from me. And so I directed my wandering eye Around to the opposite side of the sky, And the rapture that ever with ecstasy thrills Through the heart as the moon rises bright from the hills, Would in this case have been most exceedingly rare, Except for the fact that the moon was not there. But the stars looked right lovingly down in the sea, And, by Jupiter, Venus was winking at me! The gas in the city was flaring up bright, Montgomery Street was resplendent with light; But I did not exactly appear to advance A sentiment proper to that circumstance. So it only remains to explain to the town That a rainstorm came up before I could come down. As the boots I had on were uncommonly thin My fancy leaked out as the water leaked in. Though dampened my ardour, though slackened my strain, I'll 'strike the wild lyre' who sings the sweet rain! Conservatism and Progress. Old Zephyr, dawdling in the West, Looked down upon the sea, Which slept unfretted at his feet, And balanced on its breast a fleet That seemed almost to be Suspended in the middle air, As if a magnet held it there, Eternally at rest. Then, one by one, the ships released Their folded sails, and strove Against the empty calm to press North, South, or West, or East, In vain; the subtle nothingness Was impotent to move. Ten Zephyr laughed aloud to see: 663 'No vessel moves except by me, And, heigh-ho! I shall sleep.' But lo! from out the troubled North A tempest strode impatient forth, And trampled white the deep; The sloping ships flew glad away, Laving their heated sides in spray. The West then turned him red with wrath, And to the North he shouted: 'Hold there! How dare you cross my path, As now you are about it?' The North replied with laboured breathHis speed no moment slowing:'My friend, you'll never have a path, Unless you take to blowing.' Inter Arma Silent Leges. (An Election Incident.) About the polls the freedmen drew, To vote the freemen down; And merrily their caps up-flew As Grant rode through the town. From votes to staves they next did turn, And beat the freemen down; Full bravely did their valour burn As Grant rode through the town. Then staves for muskets they forsook, And shot the freemen down; Right royally their banners shook As Grant rode through the town. Hail, final triumph of our cause! Hail, chief of mute renown! Grim Magistrate of Silent Laws, A-riding freedom down! Quintessence. 'To produce these spicy paragraphs, which have been unsuccessfully imitated by every newspaper in the State, requires the combined efforts of five able-bodied persons associated on the editorial staff of this journal.'-New York Herald. Sir Muscle speaks, and nations bend the ear: 664 'Hark ye these Notes-our wit quintuple hear; Five able-bodied editors combine Their strength prodigious in each laboured line!' O wondrous vintner! hopeless seemed the task To bung these drainings in a single cask; The riddle's read-five leathern skins contain The working juice, and scarcely feel the strain. Saviours of Rome! will wonders never cease? A ballad cackled by five tuneful geese! Upon one Rosinante five stout knights Ride fiercely into visionary fights! A cap and bells five sturdy fools adorn, Five porkers battle for a grain of corn, Five donkeys squeeze into a narrow stall, Five tumble-bugs propel a single ball! Resurgam. Dawns dread and red the fateful morn Lo, Resurrection's Day is born! The striding sea no longer strides, No longer knows the trick of tides; The land is breathless, winds relent, All nature waits the dread event. From wassail rising rather late, Awarding Jove arrives in state; O'er yawning graves looks many a league, Then yawns himself from sheer fatigue. Lifting its finger to the sky, A marble shaft arrests his eye This epitaph, in pompous pride, Engraven on its polished side: 'Perfection of Creation's plan, Here resteth Universal Man, Who virtues, segregated wide, Collated, classed, and codified, Reduced to practice, taught, explained, And strict morality maintained. Anticipating death, his pelf He lavished on this monolith; Because he leaves nor kin nor kith He rears this tribute to himself, That Virtue's fame may never cease. Hic jacet-let him rest in peace!' 665 With sober eye Jove scanned the shaft, Then turned away and lightly laughed 'Poor Man! since I have careless been In keeping books to note thy sin, And thou hast left upon the earth This faithful record of thy worth, Thy final prayer shall now be heard: Of life I'll not renew thy lease, But take thee at thy carven word, And let thee rest in solemn peace!' ~ Ambrose Bierce,

846: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 ,

847:financially and employed him as his unofficial secretary. In March 768, he began his journey again and got as far as Hunan province, where he died in Tanzhou (now Changsha) in November or December 770, in his 58th year. He was survived by his wife and two sons, who remained in the area for some years at least. His last known descendant is a grandson who requested a grave inscription for the poet from Yuan Zhen in 813. Hung summarises his life by concluding that, "He appeared to be a filial son, an affectionate father, a generous brother, a faithful husband, a loyal friend, a dutiful official, and a patriotic subject." Works Criticism of ~ Du Fu 's works has focused on his strong sense of history, his moral engagement, and his technical excellence. History Since the Song dynasty, critics have called ~ Du Fu the "poet historian". The most directly historical of his poems are those commenting on military tactics or the successes and failures of the government, or the poems of advice which he wrote to the emperor. Indirectly, he wrote about the effect of the times in which he lived on himself, and on the ordinary people of China. As Watson notes, this is information "of a kind seldom found in the officially compiled histories of the era". ~ Du Fu 's political comments are based on emotion rather than calculation: his prescriptions have been paraphrased as, "Let us all be less selfish, let us all do what we are supposed to do". Since his views were impossible to disagree with, his forcefully expressed truisms enabled his installation as the central figure of Chinese poetic history. Moral engagement A second favourite epithet of Chinese critics is that of "poet sage" (?? shi shèng), a counterpart to the philosophical sage, Confucius. One of the earliest surviving works, The Song of the Wagons (from around 750), gives voice to the sufferings of a conscript soldier in the imperial army, even before the beginning of the rebellion; this poem brings out the tension between the need of acceptance and fulfilment of one's duties, and a clear-sighted consciousness of the suffering which this can involve. These themes are continuously articulated in the poems on the lives of both soldiers and civilians which ~ Du Fu produced throughout his life. Although ~ Du Fu 's frequent references to his own difficulties can give the impression of an all-consuming solipsism, Hawkes argues that his "famous compassion in fact includes himself, viewed quite objectively and almost as an afterthought". He therefore "lends grandeur" to the wider picture by comparing it to "his own slightly comical triviality". ~ Du Fu 's compassion, for himself and for others, was part of his general broadening of the scope of poetry: he devoted many works to topics which had previously been considered unsuitable for poetic treatment. Zhang Jie wrote that for ~ Du Fu , "everything in this world is poetry", and he wrote extensively on subjects such as domestic life, calligraphy, paintings, animals, and other poems. Technical excellence ~ Du Fu 's work is notable above all for its range. Chinese critics traditionally used the term txt (jídàchéng- "complete symphony"), a reference to Mencius' description of Confucius. Yuan Zhen was the first to note the breadth of ~ Du Fu 's achievement, writing in 813 that his predecessor, "united in his work traits which previous men had displayed only singly". He mastered all the forms of Chinese poetry: Chou says that in every form he "either made outstanding advances or contributed outstanding examples". Furthermore, his poems use a wide range of registers, from the direct and colloquial to the allusive and self-consciously literary. This variety is manifested even within individual works: Owen identifies the, "rapid stylistic and thematic shifts" in poems which enable the poet to represent different facets of a situation, while Chou uses the term "juxtaposition" as the major analytical tool in her work. ~ Du Fu is noted for having written more on poetics and painting than any other writer of his time. He wrote eighteen poems on painting alone, more than any other Tang poet. ~ Du Fu 's seemingly negative commentary on the prized horse paintings of Han Gan ignited a controversy that has persisted to the present day. The tenor of his work changed as he developed his style and adapted to his surroundings ("chameleon-like" according to Watson): his earliest works are in a relatively derivative, courtly style, but he came into his own in the years of the rebellion. Owen comments on the "grim simplicity" of the Qinzhou poems, which mirrors the desert landscape; the works from his Chengdu period are "light, often finely observed"; while the poems from the late Kuizhou period have a "density and power of vision". Influence According to the Encyclopædia Britannica, ~ Du Fu 's writings are considered by many literary critics to be among the greatest of all time, and it states "his dense, compressed language makes use of all the connotative overtones of a phrase and of all the intonational potentials of the individual word, qualities that no translation can ever reveal." In his lifetime and immediately following his death, ~ Du Fu was not greatly appreciated. In part this can be attributed to his stylistic and formal innovations, some of which are still "considered extremely daring and bizarre by Chinese critics." There are few contemporary references to him—only eleven poems from six writers—and these describe him in terms of affection, but not as a paragon of poetic or moral ideals. ~ Du Fu is also poorly represented in contemporary anthologies of poetry. However, as Hung notes, he "is the only Chinese poet whose influence grew with time", and his works began to increase in popularity in the ninth century. Early positive comments came from Bai Juyi, who praised the moral sentiments of some of ~ Du Fu 's works (although he found these in only a small fraction of the poems), and from Han Yu, who wrote a piece defending ~ Du Fu and Li Bai on aesthetic grounds from attacks made against them. Both these writers showed the influence of ~ Du Fu in their own poetic work. By the beginning of the 10th century, Wei Zhuang constructed the first replica of his thatched cottage in Sichuan. It was in the 11th century, during the Northern Song era that ~ Du Fu 's reputation reached its peak. In this period a comprehensive re-evaluation of earlier poets took place, in which Wang Wei, Li Bai and ~ Du Fu came to be regarded as representing respectively the Buddhist, Daoist and Confucian strands of Chinese culture. At the same time, the development of Neo-Confucianism ensured that ~ Du Fu , as its poetic exemplar, occupied the paramount position. Su Shi famously expressed this reasoning when he wrote that ~ Du Fu was "preeminent... because... through all his vicissitudes, he never for the space of a meal forgot his sovereign". His influence was helped by his ability to reconcile apparent opposites: political conservatives were attracted by his loyalty to the established order, while political radicals embraced his concern for the poor. Literary conservatives could look to his technical mastery, while literary radicals were inspired by his innovations. Since the establishment of the People's Republic of China, ~ Du Fu 's loyalty to the state and concern for the poor have been interpreted as embryonic nationalism and socialism, and he has been praised for his use of simple, "people's language". ~ Du Fu 's popularity grew to such an extent that it is as hard to measure his influence as that of Shakespeare in England: it was hard for any Chinese poet not to be influenced by him. While there was never another ~ Du Fu , individual poets followed in the traditions of specific aspects of his work: Bai Juyi's concern for the poor, Lu You's patriotism, and Mei Yaochen's reflections on the quotidian are a few examples. More broadly, ~ Du Fu 's work in transforming the lushi from mere word play into "a vehicle for serious poetic utterance" set the stage for every subsequent writer in the genre. ~ Du Fu has also been influential beyond China, although in common with the other High Tang poets, his reception into the Japanese literary culture was relatively late. It was not until the 17th century that he was accorded the same level of fame in Japan as in China, but he then had a profound influence on poets such as Matsuo Basho. In the 20th century, he was the favourite poet of Kenneth Rexroth, who has described him as "the greatest non-epic, non-dramatic poet who has survived in any language", and commented that, "he has made me a better man, as a moral agent and as a perceiving organism". A Homeless Man's Departure After the Rebellion of 755, all was silent wasteland, gardens and cottages turned to grass and thorns. My village had over a hundred households, but the chaotic world scattered them east and west. No information about the survivors; the dead are dust and mud. I, a humble soldier, was defeated in battle. I ran back home to look for old roads and walked a long time through the empty lanes. The sun was thin, the air tragic and dismal. I met only foxes and raccoons, their hair on end as they snarled in rage. Who remains in my neighborhood? One or two old widows. A returning bird loves its old branches, how could I give up this poor nest? In spring I carry my hoe all alone, yet still water the land at sunset. The county governor's clerk heard I'd returned and summoned me to practice the war-drum. This military service won't take me from my state. I look around and have no one to worry about. It's just me alone and the journey is short, but I will end up lost if I travel too far. Since my village has been washed away, near or far makes no difference. I will forever feel pain for my long-sick mother. I abandoned her in this valley five years ago. She gave birth to me, yet I could not help her. We cry sour sobs till our lives end. In my life I have no family to say farewell to, so how can I be called a human being? ~ Du Fu,

848:The Princess (Prologue) Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun Up to the people: thither flocked at noon His tenants, wife and child, and thither half The neighbouring borough with their Institute Of which he was the patron. I was there From college, visiting the son,--the son A Walter too,--with others of our set, Five others: we were seven at Vivian-place. And me that morning Walter showed the house, Greek, set with busts: from vases in the hall Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than their names, Grew side by side; and on the pavement lay Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park, Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of Time; And on the tables every clime and age Jumbled together; celts and calumets, Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs From the isles of palm: and higher on the walls, Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer, His own forefathers' arms and armour hung. And 'this' he said 'was Hugh's at Agincourt; And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon: A good knight he! we keep a chronicle With all about him'--which he brought, and I Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights, Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings Who laid about them at their wills and died; And mixt with these, a lady, one that armed Her own fair head, and sallying through the gate, Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls. 'O miracle of women,' said the book, 'O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 798 By this wild king to force her to his wish, Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunned a soldier's death, But now when all was lost or seemed as lost-Her stature more than mortal in the burst Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire-Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate, And, falling on them like a thunderbolt, She trampled some beneath her horses' heels, And some were whelmed with missiles of the wall, And some were pushed with lances from the rock, And part were drowned within the whirling brook: O miracle of noble womanhood!' So sang the gallant glorious chronicle; And, I all rapt in this, 'Come out,' he said, 'To the Abbey: there is Aunt Elizabeth And sister Lilia with the rest.' We went (I kept the book and had my finger in it) Down through the park: strange was the sight to me; For all the sloping pasture murmured, sown With happy faces and with holiday. There moved the multitude, a thousand heads: The patient leaders of their Institute Taught them with facts. One reared a font of stone And drew, from butts of water on the slope, The fountain of the moment, playing, now A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls, Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball Danced like a wisp: and somewhat lower down A man with knobs and wires and vials fired A cannon: Echo answered in her sleep From hollow fields: and here were telescopes For azure views; and there a group of girls In circle waited, whom the electric shock Dislinked with shrieks and laughter: round the lake A little clock-work steamer paddling plied And shook the lilies: perched about the knolls A dozen angry models jetted steam: A petty railway ran: a fire-balloon Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves And dropt a fairy parachute and past: And there through twenty posts of telegraph 799 They flashed a saucy message to and fro Between the mimic stations; so that sport Went hand in hand with Science; otherwhere Pure sport; a herd of boys with clamour bowled And stumped the wicket; babies rolled about Like tumbled fruit in grass; and men and maids Arranged a country dance, and flew through light And shadow, while the twangling violin Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and overhead The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end. Strange was the sight and smacking of the time; And long we gazed, but satiated at length Came to the ruins. High-arched and ivy-claspt, Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, Through one wide chasm of time and frost they gave The park, the crowd, the house; but all within The sward was trim as any garden lawn: And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends From neighbour seats: and there was Ralph himself, A broken statue propt against the wall, As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport, Half child half woman as she was, had wound A scarf of orange round the stony helm, And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, That made the old warrior from his ivied nook Glow like a sunbeam: near his tomb a feast Shone, silver-set; about it lay the guests, And there we joined them: then the maiden Aunt Took this fair day for text, and from it preached An universal culture for the crowd, And all things great; but we, unworthier, told Of college: he had climbed across the spikes, And he had squeezed himself betwixt the bars, And he had breathed the Proctor's dogs; and one Discussed his tutor, rough to common men, But honeying at the whisper of a lord; And one the Master, as a rogue in grain Veneered with sanctimonious theory. But while they talked, above their heads I saw 800 The feudal warrior lady-clad; which brought My book to mind: and opening this I read Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang With tilt and tourney; then the tale of her That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls, And much I praised her nobleness, and 'Where,' Asked Walter, patting Lilia's head (she lay Beside him) 'lives there such a woman now?' Quick answered Lilia 'There are thousands now Such women, but convention beats them down: It is but bringing up; no more than that: You men have done it: how I hate you all! Ah, were I something great! I wish I were Some might poetess, I would shame you then, That love to keep us children! O I wish That I were some great princess, I would build Far off from men a college like a man's, And I would teach them all that men are taught; We are twice as quick!' And here she shook aside The hand that played the patron with her curls. And one said smiling 'Pretty were the sight If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. I think they should not wear our rusty gowns, But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph Who shines so in the corner; yet I fear, If there were many Lilias in the brood, However deep you might embower the nest, Some boy would spy it.' At this upon the sward She tapt her tiny silken-sandaled foot: 'That's your light way; but I would make it death For any male thing but to peep at us.' Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laughed; A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, And sweet as English air could make her, she: But Walter hailed a score of names upon her, And 'petty Ogress', and 'ungrateful Puss', 801 And swore he longed at college, only longed, All else was well, for she-society. They boated and they cricketed; they talked At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics; They lost their weeks; they vext the souls of deans; They rode; they betted; made a hundred friends, And caught the blossom of the flying terms, But missed the mignonette of Vivian-place, The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke, Part banter, part affection. 'True,' she said, 'We doubt not that. O yes, you missed us much. I'll stake my ruby ring upon it you did.' She held it out; and as a parrot turns Up through gilt wires a crafty loving eye, And takes a lady's finger with all care, And bites it for true heart and not for harm, So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shrieked And wrung it. 'Doubt my word again!' he said. 'Come, listen! here is proof that you were missed: We seven stayed at Christmas up to read; And there we took one tutor as to read: The hard-grained Muses of the cube and square Were out of season: never man, I think, So mouldered in a sinecure as he: For while our cloisters echoed frosty feet, And our long walks were stript as bare as brooms, We did but talk you over, pledge you all In wassail; often, like as many girls-Sick for the hollies and the yews of home-As many little trifling Lilias--played Charades and riddles as at Christmas here, And ~what's my thought~ and ~when~ and ~where~ and ~how~, As here at Christmas.' She remembered that: A pleasant game, she thought: she liked it more Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. But these--what kind of tales did men tell men, She wondered, by themselves? A half-disdain Perched on the pouted blossom of her lips: 802 And Walter nodded at me; '~He~ began, The rest would follow, each in turn; and so We forged a sevenfold story. Kind? what kind? Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms, Seven-headed monsters only made to kill Time by the fire in winter.' 'Kill him now, The tyrant! kill him in the summer too,' Said Lilia; 'Why not now?' the maiden Aunt. 'Why not a summer's as a winter's tale? A tale for summer as befits the time, And something it should be to suit the place, Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, Grave, solemn!' Walter warped his mouth at this To something so mock-solemn, that I laughed And Lilia woke with sudden-thrilling mirth An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, Hid in the ruins; till the maiden Aunt (A little sense of wrong had touched her face With colour) turned to me with 'As you will; Heroic if you will, or what you will, Or be yourself you hero if you will.' 'Take Lilia, then, for heroine' clamoured he, 'And make her some great Princess, six feet high, Grand, epic, homicidal; and be you The Prince to win her!' 'Then follow me, the Prince,' I answered, 'each be hero in his turn! Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream.-Heroic seems our Princess as required-But something made to suit with Time and place, A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, A talk of college and of ladies' rights, A feudal knight in silken masquerade, And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all-This ~were~ a medley! we should have him back Who told the "Winter's tale" to do it for us. No matter: we will say whatever comes. And let the ladies sing us, if they will, 803 From time to time, some ballad or a song To give us breathing-space.' So I began, And the rest followed: and the women sang Between the rougher voices of the men, Like linnets in the pauses of the wind: And here I give the story and the songs. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

849:'Fairy!' the Spirit said,    And on the Queen of Spells    Fixed her ethereal eyes,    'I thank thee. Thou hast given A boon which I will not resign, and taught A lesson not to be unlearned. I know The past, and thence I will essay to glean A warning for the future, so that man May profit by his errors and derive    Experience from his folly; For, when the power of imparting joy Is equal to the will, the human soul    Requires no other heaven.' MAB    'Turn thee, surpassing Spirit!    Much yet remains unscanned.    Thou knowest how great is man,    Thou knowest his imbecility;    Yet learn thou what he is;    Yet learn the lofty destiny    Which restless Time prepares    For every living soul. 'Behold a gorgeous palace that amid Yon populous city rears its thousand towers And seems itself a city. Gloomy troops Of sentinels in stern and silent ranks Encompass it around; the dweller there Cannot be free and happy; hearest thou not The curses of the fatherless, the groans Of those who have no friend? He passes on The King, the wearer of a gilded chain That binds his soul to abjectness, the fool Whom courtiers nickname monarch, whilst a slave Even to the basest appetitesthat man Heeds not the shriek of penury; he smiles At the deep curses which the destitute Mutter in secret, and a sullen joy Pervades his bloodless heart when thousands groan But for those morsels which his wantonness Wastes in unjoyous revelry, to save All that they love from famine; when he hears The tale of horror, to some ready-made face Of hypocritical assent he turns, Smothering the glow of shame, that, spite of him, Flushes his bloated cheek.                Now to the meal Of silence, grandeur and excess he drags His palled unwilling appetite. If gold, Gleaming around, and numerous viands culled From every clime could force the loathing sense To overcome satiety,if wealth The spring it draws from poisons not,or vice, Unfeeling, stubborn vice, converteth not Its food to deadliest venom; then that king Is happy; and the peasant who fulfils His unforced task, when he returns at even And by the blazing fagot meets again Her welcome for whom all his toil is sped, Tastes not a sweeter meal.                Behold him now Stretched on the gorgeous couch; his fevered brain Reels dizzily awhile; but ah! too soon The slumber of intemperance subsides, And conscience, that undying serpent, calls Her venomous brood to their nocturnal task. Listen! he speaks! oh! mark that frenzied eye Oh! mark that deadly visage!' KING                  'No cessation! Oh! must this last forever! Awful death, I wish, yet fear to clasp thee!Not one moment Of dreamless sleep! O dear and blessd Peace, Why dost thou shroud thy vestal purity In penury and dungeons? Wherefore lurkest With danger, death, and solitude; yet shun'st The palace I have built thee? Sacred Peace! Oh, visit me but once,but pitying shed One drop of balm upon my withered soul!' THE FAIRY 'Vain man! that palace is the virtuous heart, And Peace defileth not her snowy robes In such a shed as thine. Hark! yet he mutters; His slumbers are but varied agonies; They prey like scorpions on the springs of life. There needeth not the hell that bigots frame To punish those who err; earth in itself Contains at once the evil and the cure; And all-sufficing Nature can chastise Those who transgress her law; she only knows How justly to proportion to the fault The punishment it merits.                Is it strange That this poor wretch should pride him in his woe? Take pleasure in his abjectness, and hug The scorpion that consumes him? Is it strange That, placed on a conspicuous throne of thorns, Grasping an iron sceptre, and immured Within a splendid prison whose stern bounds Shut him from all that's good or dear on earth, His soul asserts not its humanity? That man's mild nature rises not in war Against a king's employ? No'tis not strange. He, like the vulgar, thinks, feels, acts, and lives Just as his father did; the unconquered powers Of precedent and custom interpose Between a king and virtue. Stranger yet, To those who know not Nature nor deduce The future from the present, it may seem, That not one slave, who suffers from the crimes Of this unnatural being, not one wretch, Whose children famish and whose nuptial bed Is earth's unpitying bosom, rears an arm To dash him from his throne!                 Those gilded flies That, basking in the sunshine of a court, Fatten on its corruption! what are they? The drones of the community; they feed On the mechanic's labor; the starved hind For them compels the stubborn glebe to yield Its unshared harvests; and yon squalid form, Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes A sunless life in the unwholesome mine, Drags out in labor a protracted death To glut their grandeur; many faint with toil That few may know the cares and woe of sloth. Whence, thinkest thou, kings and parasites arose? Whence that unnatural line of drones who heap Toil and unvanquishable penury On those who build their palaces and bring Their daily bread?From vice, black loathsome vice; From rapine, madness, treachery, and wrong; From all that genders misery, and makes Of earth this thorny wilderness; from lust, Revenge, and murder.And when reason's voice, Loud as the voice of Nature, shall have waked The nations; and mankind perceive that vice Is discord, war and misery; that virtue Is peace and happiness and harmony; When man's maturer nature shall disdain The playthings of its childhood;kingly glare Will lose its power to dazzle, its authority Will silently pass by; the gorgeous throne Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall, Fast falling to decay; whilst falsehood's trade Shall be as hateful and unprofitable As that of truth is now.               Where is the fame Which the vain-glorious mighty of the earth Seek to eternize? Oh! the faintest sound From time's light footfall, the minutest wave That swells the flood of ages, whelms in nothing The unsubstantial bubble. Ay! to-day Stern is the tyrant's mandate, red the gaze That flashes desolation, strong the arm That scatters multitudes. To-morrow comes! That mandate is a thunder-peal that died In ages past; that gaze, a transient flash On which the midnight closed; and on that arm The worm has made his meal.                The virtuous man, Who, great in his humility as kings Are little in their grandeur; he who leads Invincibly a life of resolute good And stands amid the silent dungeon-depths More free and fearless than the trembling judge Who, clothed in venal power, vainly strove To bind the impassive spirit;when he falls, His mild eye beams benevolence no more; Withered the hand outstretched but to relieve; Sunk reason's simple eloquence that rolled But to appall the guilty. Yes! the grave Hath quenched that eye and death's relentless frost Withered that arm; but the unfading fame Which virtue hangs upon its votary's tomb, The deathless memory of that man whom kings Call to their minds and tremble, the remembrance With which the happy spirit contemplates Its well-spent pilgrimage on earth, Shall never pass away. 'Nature rejects the monarch, not the man; The subject, not the citizen; for kings And subjects, mutual foes, forever play A losing game into each other's hands, Whose stakes are vice and misery. The man Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.              When Nero High over flaming Rome with savage joy Lowered like a fiend, drank with enraptured ear The shrieks of agonizing death, beheld The frightful desolation spread, and felt A new-created sense within his soul Thrill to the sight and vibrate to the sound, Thinkest thou his grandeur had not overcome The force of human kindness? And when Rome With one stern blow hurled not the tyrant down, Crushed not the arm red with her dearest blood, Had not submissive abjectness destroyed Nature's suggestions?              Look on yonder earth: The golden harvests spring; the unfailing sun Sheds light and life; the fruits, the flowers, the trees, Arise in due succession; all things speak Peace, harmony and love. The universe, In Nature's silent eloquence, declares That all fulfil the works of love and joy, All but the outcast, Man. He fabricates The sword which stabs his peace; he cherisheth The snakes that gnaw his heart; he raiseth up The tyrant whose delight is in his woe, Whose sport is in his agony. Yon sun, Lights it the great alone? Yon silver beams, Sleep they less sweetly on the cottage thatch Than on the dome of kings? Is mother earth A step-dame to her numerous sons who earn Her unshared gifts with unremitting toil; A mother only to those puling babes Who, nursed in ease and luxury, make men The playthings of their babyhood and mar In self-important childishness that peace Which men alone appreciate?    'Spirit of Nature, no! The pure diffusion of thy essence throbs   Alike in every human heart.    Thou aye erectest there   Thy throne of power unappealable;   Thou art the judge beneath whose nod   Man's brief and frail authority    Is powerless as the wind    That passeth idly by;   Thine the tribunal which surpasseth    The show of human justice    As God surpasses man!    'Spirit of Nature! thou Life of interminable multitudes;   Soul of those mighty spheres Whose changeless paths through Heaven's deep silence lie;   Soul of that smallest being,    The dwelling of whose life   Is one faint April sun-gleam;    Man, like these passive things, Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth;   Like theirs, his age of endless peace,    Which time is fast maturing,    Will swiftly, surely, come; And the unbounded frame which thou pervadest,    Will be without a flaw   Marring its perfect symmetry!       ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab - Part III. ,

850:Marjory Spring Stornelli. THE RIVULET. OH clear smooth rivulet, creeping through our bridge With backward waves that cling around the shore, And is thy world beyond the dim blue ridge More dear than this, or does it need thee more? Oh lingering stream, upon thy ceaseless way Glide to to-morrow; yet 'tis fair to-day: Beyond the hills and haze to-morrows hide; To-day is fair; glide lingering, ceaseless tide. SPRING AND SUMMER. And summer time is good; but at its heat The fair poor blossoms wither for the fruit, And song-birds go that made our valley sweet With useless ecstasies, and the boughs are mute. And I would keep the blossoms and the song, And I would have it spring the whole year long: And I would have my life a year-long spring To never pass from hopes and blossoming. THE PRIMROSE. Dear welcome, sweet pale stars of hope and spring, Young primroses, blithe with the April air; My darlings, waiting for my gathering, Sit in my bosom, nestle in my hair. But, oh! the fairest laughs behind the brook, I cannot have it, I can only look: Oh happy primrose on the further beach, One can but look on thee, one cannot reach. LINNET AND LARK. Oh buoyant linnet in the flakes of thorn, Sing thy loud lay; for joy and song are one. 100 Oh skylark floating upwards into morn, Pour out thy carolling music of the sun. Sing, sing; be voices of the life-ful air, Glad things that never knew the cage nor snare: Be voices of the air, and fill the sky, Glad things that have no heed of by-and-by. Summer Stornelli. THE BEES IN THE LIME. AMID the thousand blossoms of the lime, The gossip bees go humming to and fro: And oh the busy joy of working time! And oh the fragrance when the lime trees blow! Take the sweet honeys deftly, happy bees, And store them for the later days than these: Store, happy bees, these honeys for the frost, That sweetness of the blossom be not lost. THE CORNFLOWER. A field-plant in my sheltered garden bed, And I have set it there to love it dear; It makes blue flowers to match skies overhead, Blue flowers for all the while the summer's here. Sky-blooms that woke and budded with the wheat, Ye last and make the livelong summer sweet: Spread while the green wheat passes into gold, Sky-blooms I planted in the garden-mould. THE FLOWING TIDE. The slow green wave comes curling from the bay And leaps in spray along the sunny marge, And steals a little more and more away, And drowns the dulse, and lifts the stranded barge. Leave me, strong tide, my smooth and yellow shore; But the clear waters deepen more and more: Leave me my pathway of the sands, strong tide; Yet are the waves more fair than all they hide. 101 THE WHISPER. Some one has said a whispered word to me; The whisper whispers on within my ear. Oh little word, hush, hush, and let me be; Hush, little word, too vexing sweet to hear. And, if it will not hush, what must I do? The word was 'Love'; perchance the word was true: And, if it will not hush, must I repine? I am his love; perchance then he is mine. THE HEART THAT LACKS ROOM. I love him, and I love him, and I love: Oh heart, my love goes welling o'er the brim. He makes my light more than the sun above, And what am I save what I am to him? All will, all hope I have, to him belong; Oh heart, thou art too small for love so strong: Oh heart, grow large, grow deeper for his sake; Oh love him better, heart, or thou wilt break! THE LOVERS. And we are lovers, lovers he and I: Oh sweet dear name that angels envy us; Lovers for now, lovers for by and by, And God to hear us call each other thus. Flow softly, river of our life, and fair; We float together to the otherwhere: Storm, river of our life, if storm must be, We brunt thy tide together to that sea. THE NIGHTINGALE. From the dusk elm rings out a changing lay; The human-hearted nightingale sings there. Why not, like little minstrels of the day, Sweet voice, fling only raptures on the air? 'Tis that she's kin to us and has our woe, Something that's lost or something yet to know: 102 'Tis that she's kin to us and sings our bliss, Loving, to know love is yet more than this. THE STORM. Storm in the dimness of the purpled sky, And the sharp flash leaps out from cloud to cloud: But the blue, lifted, corner spreads more high, Brightness, and brightness, bursts the gathered shroud. Aye, pass, black storm, thou hadst thy threatening hour; freed beams make rainbows of the shower: Now the freed sunbeams break into the air; Pass, and the sky forgets thee and is fair. BABY EYES. Blue baby eyes, they are so sweetest sweet, And yet they have not learned love's dear replies; They beg not smiles, nor call for me, nor greet, But clear, unshrinking, note me with surprise. But, eyes that have your father's curve of lid, You'll learn the look that he keeps somewhere hid: You'll smile, grave baby eyes, and I shall see The look your father keeps for only me. THE BINDWEED. In all fair hues from white to mingled rose, Along the hedge the clasping bindweed flowers; And when one chalice shuts a new one blows, There's blooming for all minutes of the hours. Along the hedge beside the trodden lane Where day by day we pass and pass again: Rosy and white along the busy mile, A flower for every step and all the while. Autumn Stornelli. THE HEATHER. THE leagues of heather lie on moor and hill, 103 And make soft purple dimness and red glow; No butterfly may call the blithe wind chill That brings the ruddy heather-bells a-blow. The song-birds half forget the world is fair, And pipe no lays because the heather's there: Oh foolish birds that have no joyous lay, With hill and moor a garden ground to-day! LATE ROSES. The swallows went last week, but 'twas too soon; For, look, the sunbeams streaming on their eaves; And, look, my rose, a very child of June, Spreading its crimson coronet of leaves. Was it too late, my rose, to bud and blow? For when the summer wanes her roses go: Bloom, rose, there are more roses yet to wake, With hearts of sweetness for the summer's sake. THE BRAMBLES. So tall along the dusty highway row, So wide on the free heath the brambles spread; Here's the pink bud, and here the full white blow, And here the black ripe berry, here the red. Bud, flower, and fruit, among the mingling thorns; And dews to feed them in the autumn morns: Fruit, flower, and bud, together, thou rich tree! And oh but life's a happy time for me! WE TWO. The road slopes on that leads us to the last, And we two tread it softly, side by side; 'Tis a blithe count the milestones we have passed, Step fitting step, and each of us for guide. My love, and I thy love, our road is fair, And fairest most because the other's there: Our road is fair, adown the harvest hill, But fairest that we two are we two still. WE TWO. 104 We two, we two! the children's smiles are dear— Thank God how dear the bonny children's smiles!— But 'tis we two among our own ones here, We two along life's way through all the whiles. To think if we had passed each other by; And he not he apart, and I not I! And oh to think if we had never known; And I not I and he not he alone! THE APPLE ORCHARD. The apple branches bend with ripening weight, The apple branches rosy as with flowers; You'd think red giant fuchsias blooming late Within this sunny orchard ground of ours. Give us your shade, fair fountain trees of fruits; We rest upon the mosses at your roots: Fair fountain trees of fruits, drop windfalls here; Lo, ripening store for all the coming year. Winter Stornelli. THE SNOWS. THE green and happy world is hidden away; Cold, cold, the ghostly snows lie on its breast; The white miles reach the shadows wan and grey 'Neath wan grey skies unchanged from east to west. Sleep on beneath the snows, chilled, barren, earth; There are no blossoms for thy winter dearth: Break not nor melt, fall still from heaven, wan snows; Hide the spoiled earth, and numb her to repose. THE HOLLY. 'Tis a brave tree. While round its boughs in vain The warring wind of January bites and girds, It holds the clusters of its crimson grain, A winter pasture for the shivering birds. Oh patient holly, that the children love, 105 No need for thee of smooth blue skies above: Oh green strong holly, shine amid the frost; Thou dost not lose one leaf for sunshine lost. THE GRAVEYARD. They sleep here well who have forgotten to-day, They weep not while we weep, nor wake each morn To bitter new surprise, as mourners may That knew not in their rest they were forlorn. Calm graveyard, 'tis more pleasant to sit here Than where loud life pretends its eager cheer: Calm graveyard, where he waits and I shall be, Thou hast the spot of earth most dear to me. THE FROZEN RIVER. Dead stream beneath the icy silent blocks That motionless stand soddening into grime, Thy fretted falls hang numb, frost pens the locks; Dead river, when shall be thy waking time? 'Not dead;' the river spoke and answered me, 'My burdened current, hidden, finds the sea' 'Not dead, not dead;' my heart replied at length, 'The frozen river holds a hidden strength.' THE DAUGHTER. Go forth, my darling, in the wreath and veil; My hand shall place them for thee; so goodbye. Thou hast Love's rose, and tend it without fail; It withers, dear, if lovers let it lie. Go, my own singing bird, and be his now; And I am more than half as glad as thou. Ah me! the singing birds that were our own Fly forth and mate: and 'tis long life alone. WE TWO. We two that could not part are parted long; He in the far-off Heaven, and I to wait. A fair world once, all blossom-time and song; 106 But to be lonely tires, and I live late. To think we two have not a word to change: And one without the other here is strange! To think we two have nothing now to share: I wondering here, and he without me there! WE TWO. We two, we two! we still are linked and nigh: He could not have forgotten in any bliss; Surely he feels my being yet; and I, I have no thought but seems some part of his. Oh love gone out of reach of yearning eyes, Our hearts can meet to gather-in replies: Oh love past touch of lip and clasp of hand, Thou canst not be too far to understand. THE FLOWERS TO COME. The drift is in the hollows of the hill, Yet primrose leaves uncurl beneath the hedge; Frosts pierce the dawn, and the north wind blows chill, Yet snowdrop spikelets rim the garden edge. Dear plants that will make bud in coming spring, Ye were not for one only blossoming: More than one blossoming for all fair flowers; And God keeps mine till spring is somewhere ours. ~ Augusta Davies Webster,

851:Saint Maura: A.D. 304 Thank God! Those gazers' eyes are gone at last! The guards are crouching underneath the rock; The lights are fading in the town below, Around the cottage which this morn was ours. Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone; Alone upon our crosses with our God; While all the angels watch us from the stars. Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him, And bathe his limbs in glory, for a sign Of what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord! Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb! Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love, Never till now loved utterly! Oh say, Say you forgive me! No-you must not speak: You said it to me hours ago-long hours! Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comes Speak to the people, call them home to God, A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church; And plead from off the tree with outspread arms, To show them that the Son of God endured For them-and me. Hush! I alone will speak, And while away the hours till dawn for you. I know you have forgiven me; as I lay Beneath your feet, while they were binding me, I knew I was forgiven then! When I cried 'Here am I, husband! The lost lamb returned, All re-baptized in blood!' and you said, 'Come! Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more!' From that same moment all my pain was gone; And ever since those sightless eyes have smiled Love-love! Alas, those eyes! They made me fall. I could not bear to see them, bleeding, dark, Never, no never to look into mine; Never to watch me round the little room Singing about my work, or flash on me Looks bright with counsel.-Then they drove me mad With talk of nameless tortures waiting youAnd I could save you! You would hear your loveThey knew you loved me, cruel men! And then- 76 Then came a dream; to say one little word, One easy wicked word, we both might say, And no one hear us, but the lictors round; One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains, And both, both free! And life had just begunOnly three months-short months-your wedded wife Only three months within the cottage thereHoping I bore your child. . . . Ah! husband! Saviour! God! think gently of me! I am forgiven! . . . And then another dream; A flash-so quick, I could not bear the blaze; I could not see the smoke among the lightTo wander out through unknown lands, and lead You by the hand through hamlet, port, and town, On, on, until we died; and stand each day To glory in you, as you preached and prayed From rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words, Mingled with fire and honey-you would wake, Bend, save whole nations! would not that atone For one short word?-ay, make it right, to save You, you, to fight the battles of the Lord? And so-and so-alas! you knew the rest! You answered me. . . . Ah cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words. You had done nobly had you struck me dead, Instead of striking me to life!-the temptress! . . . 'Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!''The smell of death upon me?'-so it was! True! true! well spoken, hero! Oh they snapped, Those words, my madness, like the angel's voice Thrilling the graves to birth-pangs. All was clear. There was but one right thing in the world to do; And I must do it. . . . Lord, have mercy! Christ! Help through my womanhood: or I shall fail Yet, as I failed before! . . . I could not speakI could not speak for shame and misery, And terror of my sin, and of the things I knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven! There we should meet, perhaps-and by that time I might be worthy of you once againOf you, and of my God. . . . So I went out. 77 ...... Will you hear more, and so forget the pain? And yet I dread to tell you what comes next; Your love will feel it all again for me. No! it is over; and the woe that's dead Rises next hour a glorious angel. Love! Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are dry! To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat, And they will give you water. One to-day, A soldier, gave me water in a sponge Upon a reed, and said, 'Too fair! too young! She might have been a gallant soldier's wife!' And then I cried, 'I am a soldier's wife! A hero's!' And he smiled, but let me drink. God bless him for it! So they led me back: And as I went, a voice was in my ears Which rang through all the sunlight, and the breath And blaze of all the garden slopes below, And through the harvest-voices, and the moan Of cedar-forests on the cliffs above, And round the shining rivers, and the peaks Which hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west, And round the ancient stones about my feet. Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried, 'My hand hath made all these. Am I too weak To give thee strength to say so?' Then my soul Spread like a clear blue sky within my breast, While all the people made a ring around, And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly'Well! hast thou brought him to a better mind?' 'No! He has brought me to a better mind!'I cried, and said beside-I know not whatWords which I learnt from thee-I trust in God Nought fierce or rude-for was I not a girl Three months ago beneath my mother's roof? I thought of that. She might be there! I lookedShe was not there! I hid my face and wept. And when I looked again, the judge's eye Was on me, cold and steady, deep in thought'She knows what shame is still; so strip her.' 'Ah!' I shrieked, 'Not that, Sir! Any pain! So young 78 I am-a wife too-I am not my own, But his-my husband's!' But they took my shawl, And tore my tunic off, and there I stood Before them all. . . . Husband! you love me still? Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out, kind moon, And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed, While some cried 'Shame!' and some, 'She is too young!' And some mocked-ugly words: God shut my ears. And yet no earthquake came to swallow me. While all the court around, and walls, and roofs, And all the earth and air were full of eyes, Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame, Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow: And yet no earthquake came! And then I knew This body was not yours alone, but God'sHis loan-He needed it: and after that The worst was come, and any torture more A change-a lightening; and I did not shriekOnce only-once, when first I felt the whipIt coiled so keen around my side, and sent A fire-flash through my heart which choked me-then I shrieked-that once. The foolish echo rang So far and long-I prayed you might not hear. And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes, Swam by me, and a murmur in my ears Of humming bees around the limes at home; And I was all alone with you and God. And what they did to me I hardly know; I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back, It was not after all so very sharp: So do not pity me. It made me pray; Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you, And you in God: and once, when I looked down, And saw an ugly sight-so many wounds! 'What matter?' thought I. 'His dear eyes are dark; For them alone I kept these limbs so whiteA foolish pride! As God wills now. 'Tis just.' But then the judge spoke out in haste: 'She is mad, Or fenced by magic arts! She feels no pain!' He did not know I was on fire within: Better he should not; so his sin was less. Then he cried fiercely, 'Take the slave away, 79 And crucify her by her husband's side!' And at those words a film came on my faceA sickening rush of joy-was that the end? That my reward? I rose, and tried to goBut all the eyes had vanished, and the judge; And all the buildings melted into mist: So how they brought me here I cannot tellHere, here, by you, until the judgment-day, And after that for ever and for ever! Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch! One finger tip, to send the thrill through me I felt but yesterday!-No! I can wait:Another body!-Oh, new limbs are ready, Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve, Kept for us in the treasuries of God. They will not mar the love they try to speak, They will not fail my soul, as these have done! ..... Will you hear more? Nay-you know all the rest: Yet those poor eyes-alas! they could not see My waking, when you hung above me there With hands outstretched to bless the penitentYour penitent-even like The Lord HimselfI gloried in you!-like The Lord Himself! Sharing His very sufferings, to the crown Of thorns which they had put on that dear brow To make you like Him-show you as you were! I told them so! I bid them look on you, And see there what was the highest throne on earthThe throne of suffering, where the Son of God Endured and triumphed for them. But they laughed; All but one soldier, gray, with many scars; And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you, And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloudYou heard me! You know all! I am at peace. Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moon Upon your limbs, came on me at your smile, And kept me happy, when they dragged me back From that last kiss, and spread me on the cross, And bound my wrists and ankles-Do not sigh: I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me up My eyes have never left your face, my own, my own, 80 Nor will, till death comes! . . . Do I feel much pain? Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot bear. It has become like part of my own life, Or part of God's life in me-honour-bliss! I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest; Rest deep and smiling, like a summer's night. I should be easy, now, if I could move . . . I cannot stir. Ah God! these shoots of fire Through all my limbs! Hush, selfish girl! He hears you! Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed? Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evil Unless it conquers us. These little wrists, nowYou said, one blessed night, they were too slender, Too soft and slender for a deacon's wifePerhaps a martyr's:-You forgot the strength Which God can give. The cord has cut them through; And yet my voice has never faltered yet. Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and pray That you may die: and you must not die yet. Not yet-they told us we might live three days . . . Two days for you to preach! Two days to speak Words which may wake the dead! ..... Hush! is he sleeping? They say that men have slept upon the cross; So why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe: And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!-save Souls, crowds, for Thee! And they will know his worth Years hence-poor things, they know not what they do!And crown him martyr; and his name will ring Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see His triumph-Preacher! Martyr!-Ah-and me?If they must couple my poor name with his, Let them tell all the truth-say how I loved him, And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord! Returning good for evil! and was this The payment I deserved for such a sin? To hang here on my cross, and look at him Until we kneel before Thy throne in heaven! 81 Eversley, 1852. ~ Charles Kingsley,

852:Now, man of croziers, shadows called our names And then away, away, like whirling flames; And now fled by, mist-covered, without sound, The youth and lady and the deer and hound; 'Gaze no more on the phantoms,' Niamh said, And kissed my eyes, and, swaying her bright head And her bright body, sang of faery and man Before God was or my old line began; Wars shadowy, vast, exultant; faeries of old Who wedded men with rings of Druid gold; And how those lovers never turn their eyes Upon the life that fades and flickers and dies, Yet love and kiss on dim shores far away Rolled round with music of the sighing spray: Yet sang no more as when, like a brown bee That has drunk full, she crossed the misty sea With me in her white arms a hundred years Before this day; for now the fall of tears Troubled her song.          I do not know if days Or hours passed by, yet hold the morning rays Shone many times among the glimmering flowers Woven into her hair, before dark towers Rose in the darkness, and the white surf gleamed About them; and the horse of Faery screamed And shivered, knowing the Isle of Many Fears, Nor ceased until white Niamh stroked his ears And named him by sweet names.                A foaming tide Whitened afar with surge, fan-formed and wide, Burst from a great door matred by many a blow From mace and sword and pole-axe, long ago When gods and giants warred. We rode between The seaweed-covered pillars; and the green And surging phosphorus alone gave light On our dark pathway, till a countless flight Of moonlit steps glimmered; and left and right Dark statues glimmered over the pale tide Upon dark thrones. Between the lids of one The imaged meteors had flashed and run And had disported in the stilly jet, And the fixed stars had dawned and shone and set, Since God made Time and Death and Sleep: the other Stretched his long arm to where, a misty smother, The stream churned, churned, and churned - his lips apart, As though he told his never-slumbering heart Of every foamdrop on its misty way. Tying the horse to his vast foot that lay Half in the unvesselled sea, we climbed the stair And climbed so long, I thought the last steps were Hung from the morning star; when these mild words Fanned the delighted air like wings of birds: 'My brothers spring out of their beds at morn, A-murmur like young partridge: with loud horn They chase the noontide deer; And when the dew-drowned stars hang in the air Look to long fishing-lines, or point and pare An ashen hunting spear. O sigh, O fluttering sigh, be kind to me; Flutter along the froth lips of the sea, And shores the froth lips wet: And stay a little while, and bid them weep: Ah, touch their blue-veined eyelids if they sleep, And shake their coverlet. When you have told how I weep endlessly, Flutter along the froth lips of the sea And home to me again, And in the shadow of my hair lie hid, And tell me that you found a man unbid, The saddest of all men.' A lady with soft eyes like funeral tapers, And face that seemed wrought out of moonlit vapours, And a sad mouth, that fear made tremulous As any ruddy moth, looked down on us; And she with a wave-rusted chain was tied To two old eagles, full of ancient pride, That with dim eyeballs stood on either side. Few feathers were on their dishevelled wings, For their dim minds were with the ancient things. 'I bring deliverance,' pearl-pale Niamh said. 'Neither the living, nor the unlabouring dead, Nor the high gods who never lived, may fight My enemy and hope; demons for fright Jabber and scream about him in the night; For he is strong and crafty as the seas That sprang under the Seven Hazel Trees, And I must needs endure and hate and weep, Until the gods and demons drop asleep, Hearing Aed touch the mournful strings of gold.' 'Is he so dreadful?'           'Be not over-bold, But fly while still you may.'                And thereon I: 'This demon shall be battered till he die, And his loose bulk be thrown in the loud tide.' 'Flee from him,' pearl-pale Niamh weeping cried, 'For all men flee the demons'; but moved not My angry king-remembering soul one jot. There was no mightier soul of Heber's line; Now it is old and mouse-like. For a sign I burst the chain: still earless, nerveless, blind, Wrapped in the things of the unhuman mind, In some dim memory or ancient mood, Still earless, nerveless, blind, the eagles stood. And then we climbed the stair to a high door; A hundred horsemen on the basalt floor Beneath had paced content: we held our way And stood within: clothed in a misty ray I saw a foam-white seagull drift and float Under the roof, and with a straining throat Shouted, and hailed him: he hung there a star, For no man's cry shall ever mount so far; Not even your God could have thrown down that hall; Stabling His unloosed lightnings in their stall, He had sat down and sighed with cumbered heart, As though His hour were come.                We sought the part That was most distant from the door; green slime Made the way slippery, and time on time Showed prints of sea-born scales, while down through it The captive's journeys to and fro were writ Like a small river, and where feet touched came A momentary gleam of phosphorus flame. Under the deepest shadows of the hall That woman found a ring hung on the wall, And in the ring a torch, and with its flare Making a world about her in the air, Passed under the dim doorway, out of sight, And came again, holding a second light Burning between her fingers, and in mine Laid it and sighed: I held a sword whose shine No centuries could dim, and a word ran Thereon in Ogham letters, 'Manannan'; That sea-god's name, who in a deep content Sprang dripping, and, with captive demons sent Out of the sevenfold seas, built the dark hall Rooted in foam and clouds, and cried to all The mightier masters of a mightier race; And at his cry there came no milk-pale face Under a crown of thorns and dark with blood, But only exultant faces.             Niamh stood With bowed head, trembling when the white blade shone, But she whose hours of tenderness were gone Had neither hope nor fear. I bade them hide Under the shadowS till the tumults died Of the loud-crashing and earth-shaking fight, Lest they should look upon some dreadful sight; And thrust the torch between the slimy flags. A dome made out of endless carven jags, Where shadowy face flowed into shadowy face, Looked down on me; and in the self-same place I waited hour by hour, and the high dome, Windowless, pillarless, multitudinous home Of faces, waited; and the leisured gaze Was loaded with the memory of days Buried and mighty. When through the great door The dawn came in, and glimmered on the floor With a pale light, I journeyed round the hall And found a door deep sunken in the wall, The least of doors; beyond on a dim plain A little runnel made a bubbling strain, And on the runnel's stony and bare edge A dusky demon dry as a withered sedge Swayed, crooning to himself an unknown tongue: In a sad revelry he sang and swung Bacchant and mournful, passing to and fro His hand along the runnel's side, as though The flowers still grew there: far on the sea's waste Shaking and waving, vapour vapour chased, While high frail cloudlets, fed with a green light, Like drifts of leaves, immovable and bright, Hung in the passionate dawn. He slowly turned: A demon's leisure: eyes, first white, now burned Like wings of kingfishers; and he arose Barking. We trampled up and down with blows Of sword and brazen battle-axe, while day Gave to high noon and noon to night gave way; And when he knew the sword of Manannan Amid the shades of night, he changed and ran Through many shapes; I lunged at the smooth throat Of a great eel; it changed, and I but smote A fir-tree roaring in its leafless top; And thereupon I drew the livid chop Of a drowned dripping body to my breast; Horror from horror grew; but when the west Had surged up in a plumy fire, I drave Through heart and spine; and cast him in the wave Lest Niamh shudder.          Full of hope and dread Those two came carrying wine and meat and bread, And healed my wounds with unguents out of flowers That feed white moths by some De Danaan shrine; Then in that hall, lit by the dim sea-shine, We lay on skins of otters, and drank wine, Brewed by the sea-gods, from huge cups that lay Upon the lips of sea-gods in their day; And then on heaped-up skins of otters slept. And when the sun once more in saffron stept, Rolling his flagrant wheel out of the deep, We sang the loves and angers without sleep, And all the exultant labours of the strong. But now the lying clerics murder song With barren words and flatteries of the weak. In what land do the powerless turn the beak Of ravening Sorrow, or the hand of Wrath? For all your croziers, they have left the path And wander in the storms and clinging snows, Hopeless for ever: ancient Oisin knows, For he is weak and poor and blind, and lies On the anvil of the world. S. Patrick.    Be still: the skies Are choked with thunder, lightning, and fierce wind, For God has heard, and speaks His angry mind; Go cast your body on the stones and pray, For He has wrought midnight and dawn and day. Oisin. Saint, do you weep? I hear amid the thunder The Fenian horses; atmour torn asunder; Laughter and cries. The armies clash and shock, And now the daylight-darkening ravens flock. Cease, cease, O mournful, laughing Fenian horn! We feasted for three days. On the fourth morn I found, dropping sea-foam on the wide stair, And hung with slime, and whispering in his hair, That demon dull and unsubduable; And once more to a day-long battle fell, And at the sundown threw him in the surge, To lie until the fourth morn saw emerge His new-healed shape; and for a hundred years So watred, so feasted, with nor dreams nor fears, Nor languor nor fatigue: an endless feast, An endless war.        The hundred years had ceased; I stood upon the stair: the surges bore A beech-bough to me, and my heart grew sore, Remembering how I had stood by white-haired Finn Under a beech at Almhuin and heard the thin Outcry of bats.        And then young Niamh came Holding that horse, and sadly called my name; I mounted, and we passed over the lone And drifting greyness, while this monotone, Surly and distant, mixed inseparably Into the clangour of the wind and sea. 'I hear my soul drop down into decay, And Mananna's dark tower, stone after stone. Gather sea-slime and fall the seaward way, And the moon goad the waters night and day, That all be overthrown. 'But till the moon has taken all, I wage War on the mightiest men under the skies, And they have fallen or fled, age after age. Light is man's love, and lighter is man's rage; His purpose drifts and dies.' And then lost Niamh murmured, 'Love, we go To the Island of Forgetfulness, for lo! The Islands of Dancing and of Victories Are empty of all power.'             'And which of these Is the Island of Content?'              'None know,' she said; And on my bosom laid her weeping head. ~ William Butler Yeats, The Wanderings Of Oisin - Book II ,

853:The Happiest Girl In The World A week ago; only a little week: it seems so much much longer, though that day is every morning still my yesterday; as all my life 'twill be my yesterday, for all my life is morrow to my love. Oh fortunate morrow! Oh sweet happy love! A week ago; and I am almost glad to have him now gone for this little while, that I may think of him and tell myself what to be his means, now that I am his, and know if mine is love enough for him, and make myself believe it all is true. A week ago; and it seems like a life, and I have not yet learned to know myself: I am so other than I was, so strange, grown younger and grown older all in one; and I am not so sad and not so gay; and I think nothing, only hear him think. That morning, waking, I remembered him "Will he be here to-day? he often comes; -and is it for my sake or to kill time?" and, wondering "Will he come?" I chose the dress he seemed to like the best, and hoped for him; and did not think I could quite love him yet. And did I love him then with all my heart? or did I wait until he held my hands and spoke "Say, shall it be?" and kissed my brow, and I looked at him and he knew it all? And did I love him from the day we met? but I more gladly danced with some one else who waltzed more smoothly and was merrier: and did I love him when he first came here? but I more gladly talked with some one else whose words were readier and who sought me more. When did I love him? How did it begin? 156 The small green spikes of snowdrops in the spring are there one morning ere you think of them; still we may tell what morning they pierced up: June rosebuds stir and open stealthily, and every new blown rose is a surprise; still we can date the day when one unclosed: but how can I tell when my love began? Oh, was it like the young pale twilight star that quietly breaks on the vacant sky, is sudden there and perfect while you watch, and, though you watch, you have not seen it dawn, the star that only waited and awoke? But he knows when he loved me; for he says the first time we had met he told a friend "The sweetest dewy daisy of a girl, but not the solid stuff to make a wife;" and afterwards the first time he was here, when I had slipped away into our field to watch alone for sunset brightening on and heard them calling me, he says he stood and saw me come along the coppice walk beneath the green and sparkling arch of boughs, and, while he watched the yellow lights that played with the dim flickering shadows of the leaves over my yellow hair and soft pale dress, flitting across me as I flitted through, he whispered inly, in so many words, "I see my wife; this is my wife who comes, and seems to bear the sunlight on with her:" and that was when he loved me, so he says. Yet is he quite sure? was it only then? and had he had no thought which I could feel? for why was it I knew that he would watch, and all the while thought in my silly heart, as I advanced demurely, it was well I had on the pale dress with sweeping folds which took the light and shadow tenderly, and that the sunlights touched my hair and cheek, 157 because he'd note it all and care for it? Oh vain and idle poor girl's heart of mine, content with that coquettish mean content! He, with his man's straight purpose, thinking "wife," and I but that 'twas pleasant to be fair and that 'twas pleasant he should count me fair. But oh, to think he should be loving me and I be no more moved out of myself! The sunbeams told him, but they told me nought, except that maybe I was looking well. And oh had I but known! Why did no bird, trilling its own sweet lovesong, as I passed, so musically marvellously glad, sing one for me too, sing me "It is he," sing "Love him," and "You love him: it is he," that I might then have loved him when he loved, that one dear moment might be date to both? And must I not be glad he hid his thought and did not tell me then, when it was soon and I should have been startled, and not known how he is just the one man I can love, and, only with some pain lest he were pained, and nothing doubting, should have answered "No." How strange life is! I should have answered "No." Oh, can I ever be half glad enough he is so wise and patient and could wait! He waited as you wait the reddening fruit which helplessly is ripening on the tree, and not because it tries or longs or wills, only because the sun will shine on it: but he who waited was himself that sun. Oh was it worth the waiting? was it worth? For I am half afraid love is not love, this love which only makes me rest in him and be so happy and so confident, this love which makes me pray for longest days that I may have them all to use for him, this love which almost makes me yearn for pain 158 that I might have borne something for his sake, this love which I call love, is less than love. Where are the fires and fevers and the pangs? where is the anguish of too much delight, and the delirious madness at a kiss, the flushing and the paling at a look, and passionate ecstasy of meeting hands? where is the eager weariness at time that will not bate a single measured hour to speed to us the far-off wedding day? I am so calm and wondering, like a child who, led by a firm hand it knows and trusts along a stranger country beautiful with a bewildering beauty to new eyes if they be wise to know what they behold, finds newness everywhere but no surprise, and takes the beauty as an outward part of being led so kindly by the hand. I am so cold: is mine but a child's heart, and not a woman's fit for such a man? Alas am I too cold, am I too dull, can I not love him as another could? And oh, if love be fire, what love is mine that is but like the pale subservient moon who only asks to be earth's minister? And, oh, if love be whirlwind, what is mine that is but like a little even brook which has no aim but flowing to the sea, and sings for happiness because it flows? Ah well, I would that I could love him more and not be only happy as I am; I would that I could love him to his worth, with that forgetting all myself in him, that subtle pain of exquisite excess, that momentary infinite sharp joy, I know by books but cannot teach my heart: and yet I think my love must needs be love, since he can read me through -- oh happy strange, my thoughts that were my secrets all for me grown instantly his open easy book! -since he can read me through, and is content. 159 And yesterday, when they all went away, save little Amy with her daisy chains, and left us in that shadow of tall ferns, and the child, leaning on me, fell asleep, and I, tired by the afternoon long walk, said "I could almost gladly sleep like her," did he not answer, drawing down my head, "Sleep, darling, let me see you rest on me," and when the child, awaking, wakened me, did he not say "Dear, you have made me glad, for, seeing you so sleeping peacefully, I feel that you do love me utterly, no questionings, no regrettings, but at rest." Oh yes, my good true darling, you spoke well "No questionings, no regrettings, but at rest:" what should I question, what should I regret, now I have you who are my hope and rest? I am the feathery wind-wafted seed that flickered idly half a merry morn, now thralled into the rich life-giving earth to root and bud and waken into leaf and make it such poor sweetness as I may; the prisoned seed that never more shall float the frolic playfellow of summer winds and mimic the free changeful butterfly; the prisoned seed that prisoned finds its life and feels its pulses stir, and grows, and grows. Oh love, who gathered me into yourself, oh love, I am at rest in you, and live. And shall I for so many coming days be flower and sweetness to him? Oh pale flower, grow, grow, and blossom out, and fill the air, feed on his richness, grow, grow, blossom out, and fill the air, and be enough for him. Oh crystal music of the air-borne lark, so falling, nearer, nearer, from the sky, are you a message to me of dear hopes? 160 oh trilling gladness, flying down to earth, have you brought answer of sweet prophecy? have you brought answer to the thoughts in me? Oh happy answer, and oh happy thoughts! and which is the bird's carol, which my heart's? My love, my love, my love! And I shall be so much to him, so almost everything: and I shall be the friend whom he will trust, and I shall be the child whom he will teach, and I shall be the servant he will praise, and I shall be the mistress he will love, and I shall be his wife. Oh days to come, will ye not pass like gentle rhythmic steps that fall to sweetest music noiselessly? But I have known the lark's song half sound sad, and I have seen the lake, which rippled sun, toss dimmed and purple in a sudden wind; and let me laugh a moment at my heart that thinks the summer-time must all be fair, that thinks the good days always must be good: yes let me laugh a moment -- may be weep. But no, but no, not laugh; for through my joy I have been wise enough to know the while some tears and some long hours are in all lives, in every promised land some thorn plants grow, some tangling weeds as well as laden vines: and no, not weep; for is not my land fair, my land of promise flushed with fruit and bloom? and who would weep for fear of scattered thorns? and very thorns bear oftentimes sweet fruits. Oh the black storm that breaks across the lake ruffles the surface, leaves the deeps at rest -deep in our hearts there always will be rest: oh summer storms fall sudden as they rose, the peaceful lake forgets them while they die -our hearts will always have it summer time. All rest, all summer time. My love, my love, 161 I know it will be so; you are so good, and I, near you, shall grow at last like you; and you are tender, patient -- oh I know you will bear with me, help me, smile to me, and let me make you happy easily; and I, what happiness could I have more than that dear labour of a happy wife? I would not have another. Is it wrong, and is it selfish that I cannot wish, that I, who yet so love the clasping hand and innocent fond eyes of little ones, I cannot wish that which I sometimes read is women's dearest wish hid in their love, to press a baby creature to my breast? Oh is it wrong? I would be all for him, not even children coming 'twixt us two to call me from his service to serve them; and maybe they would steal too much of love, for, since I cannot love him now enough, what would my heart be halved? or would it grow? But he perhaps would love me something less, finding me not so always at his side. Together always, that was what he said; together always. Oh dear coming days! O dear dear present days that pass too fast, although they bring such rainbow morrows on! that pass so fast, and yet, I know not why, seem always to encompass so much time. And I should fear I were too happy now, and making this poor world too much my Heaven, but that I feel God nearer and it seems as if I had learned His love better too. So late already! The sun dropping down, and under him the first long line of red -my truant should be here again by now, is come maybe. I will not seek him, I; he would be vain and think I cared too much; I will wait here, and he shall seek for me, and I will carelessly -- Oh his dear step -he sees me, he is coming; my own love! 162 ~ Augusta Davies Webster,

854:The Bounty [for Alix Walcott] Between the vision of the Tourist Board and the true Paradise lies the desert where Isaiah's elations force a rose from the sand. The thirty-third canto cores the dawn clouds with concentric radiance, the breadfruit opens its palms in praise of the bounty, bois-pain, tree of bread, slave food, the bliss of John Clare, torn, wandering Tom, stoat-stroker in his county of reeds and stalk-crickets, fiddling the dank air, lacing his boots with vines, steering glazed beetles with the tenderest prods, knight of the cockchafer, wrapped in the mists of shires, their snail-horned steeples palms opening to the cupped pool—but his soul safer than ours, though iron streams fetter his ankles. Frost whitening his stubble, he stands in the ford of a brook like the Baptist lifting his branches to bless cathedrals and snails, the breaking of this new day, and the shadows of the beach road near which my mother lies, with the traffic of insects going to work anyway. The lizard on the white wall fixed on the hieroglyph of its stone shadow, the palms' rustling archery, the souls and sails of circling gulls rhyme with: "In la sua volont è nostra pace," In His will is our peace. Peace in white harbours, in marinas whose masts agree, in crescent melons left all night in the fridge, in the Egyptian labours of ants moving boulders of sugar, words in this sentence, shadow and light, who live next door like neighbours, 57 and in sardines with pepper sauce. My mother lies near the white beach stones, John Clare near the sea-almonds, yet the bounty returns each daybreak, to my surprise, to my surprise and betrayal, yes, both at once. I am moved like you, mad Tom, by a line of ants; I behold their industry and they are giants. ii There on the beach, in the desert, lies the dark well where the rose of my life was lowered, near the shaken plants, near a pool of fresh tears, tolled by the golden bell of allamanda, thorns of the bougainvillea, and that is their bounty! They shine with defiance from weed and flower, even those that flourish elsewhere, vetch, ivy, clematis, on whom the sun now rises with all its power, not for the Tourist Board or for Dante Alighieri, but because there is no other path for its wheel to take except to make the ruts of the beach road an allegory of this poem's career, of yours, that she died for the sake of a crowning wreath of false laurel; so, John Clare, forgive me, for this morning's sake, forgive me, coffee, and pardon me, milk with two packets of artificial sugar, as I watch these lines grow and the art of poetry harden me into sorrow as measured as this, to draw the veiled figure of Mamma entering the standard elegiac. No, there is grief, there will always be, but it must not madden, like Clare, who wept for a beetle's loss, for the weight of the world in a bead of dew on clematis or vetch, and the fire in these tinder-dry lines of this poem I hate as much as I love her, poor rain-beaten wretch, redeemer of mice, earl of the doomed protectorate of cavalry under your cloak; come on now, enough! 58 iii Bounty! In the bells of tree-frogs with their steady clamour in the indigo dark before dawn, the fading morse of fireflies and crickets, then light on the beetle's armour, and the toad's too-late presages, nettles of remorse that shall spring from her grave from the spade's heartbreak. And yet not to have loved her enough is to love more, if I confess it, and I confess it. The trickle of underground springs, the babble of swollen gulches under drenched ferns, loosening the grip of their roots, till their hairy clods like unclenching fists swirl wherever the gulch turns them, and the shuddering aftermath bends the rods of wild cane. Bounty in the ant's waking fury, in the snail's chapel stirring under wild yams, praise in decay and process, awe in the ordinary in wind that reads the lines of the breadfruit's palms in the sun contained in a globe of the crystal dew, bounty in the ants' continuing a line of raw flour, mercy on the mongoose scuttling past my door, in the light's parallelogram laid on the kitchen floor, for Thine is the Kingdom, the Glory, and the Power, the bells of Saint Clement's in the marigolds on the altar, in the bougainvillea's thorns, in the imperial lilac and the feathery palms that nodded at the entry into Jerusalem, the weight of the world on the back of an ass; dismounting, He left His cross there for sentry and sneering centurion; then I believed in His Word, in a widow's immaculate husband, in pews of brown wood, when the cattle-bell of the chapel summoned our herd 59 into the varnished stalls, in whose rustling hymnals I heard the fresh Jacobean springs, the murmur Clare heard of bounty abiding, the clear language she taught us, "as the hart panteth," at this, her keen ears pronged while her three fawns nibbled the soul-freshening waters, "as the hart panteth for the water-brooks" that belonged to the language in which I mourn her now, or when I showed her my first elegy, her husband's, and then her own. iv But can she or can she not read this? Can you read this, Mamma, or hear it? If I took the pulpit, lay-preacher like tender Clare, like poor Tom, so that look, Miss! the ants come to you like children, their beloved teacher Alix, but unlike the silent recitation of the infants, the choir that Clare and Tom heard in their rainy county, we have no solace but utterance, hence this wild cry. Snails move into harbour, the breadfruit plants on the Bounty will be heaved aboard, and the white God is Captain Bligh. Across white feathery grave-grass the shadow of the soul passes, the canvas cracks open on the cross-trees of the Bounty, and the Trades lift the shrouds of the resurrected sail. All move in their passage to the same mother-country, the dirt-clawing weasel, the blank owl or sunning seal. Faith grows mutinous. The ribbed body with its cargo stalls in its doldrums, the God-captain is cast adrift by a mutinous Christian, in the wake of the turning Argo plants bob in the ocean's furrows, their shoots dip and lift, and the soul's Australia is like the New Testament after the Old World, the code of an eye for an eye; the horizon spins slowly and Authority's argument 60 diminishes in power, in the longboat with Captain Bligh. This was one of your earliest lessons, how the Christ-Son questions the Father, to settle on another island, haunted by Him, by the speck of a raging deity on the ruled horizon, diminishing in meaning and distance, growing more dim: all these predictable passages that we first disobey before we become what we challenged; but you never altered your voice, either sighing or sewing, you would pray to your husband aloud, pedalling the hymns we all heard in the varnished pew: "There Is a Green Hill Far Away," "Jerusalem the Golden." Your melody faltered but never your faith in the bounty which is His Word. All of these waves crepitate from the culture of Ovid, its sibilants and consonants; a universal metre piles up these signatures like inscriptions of seaweed that dry in the pungent sun, lines ruled by mitre and laurel, or spray swiftly garlanding the forehead of an outcrop (and I hope this settles the matter of presences). No soul was ever invented, yet every presence is transparent; if I met her (in her nightdress ankling barefoot, crooning to the shallows), should I call her shadow that of a pattern invented by Graeco-Roman design, columns of shadows cast by the Forum, Augustan perspectives— poplars, casuarina-colonnades, the in-and-out light of almonds made from original Latin, no leaf but the olive's? Questions of pitch. Faced with seraphic radiance (don't interrupt!), mortals rub their skeptical eyes that hell is a beach-fire at night where embers dance, with temporal fireflies like thoughts of Paradise; 61 but there are inexplicable instincts that keep recurring not from hope or fear only, that are real as stones, the faces of the dead we wait for as ants are transferring their cities, though we no longer believe in the shining ones. I half-expect to see you no longer, then more than half, almost never, or never then—there I have said it— but felt something less than final at the edge of your grave, some other something somewhere, equally dreaded, since the fear of the infinite is the same as death, unendurable brightness, the substantial dreading its own substance, dissolving to gases and vapours, like our dread of distance; we need a horizon, a dividing line that turns the stars into neighbours though infinity separates them, we can think of only one sun: all I am saying is that the dread of death is in the faces we love, the dread of our dying, or theirs; therefore we see in the glint of immeasurable spaces not stars or falling embers, not meteors, but tears. vi The mango trees serenely rust when they are in flower, nobody knows the name for that voluble cedar whose bell-flowers fall, the pomme-arac purples its floor. The blue hills in late afternoon always look sadder. The country night waiting to come in outside the door; the firefly keeps striking matches, and the hillside fumes with a bluish signal of charcoal, then the smoke burns into a larger question, one that forms and unforms, then loses itself in a cloud, till the question returns. Buckets clatter under pipes, villages begin at corners. A man and his trotting dog come back from their garden. 62 The sea blazes beyond the rust roofs, dark is on us before we know it. The earth smells of what's done, small yards brighten, day dies and its mourners begin, the first wreath of gnats; this was when we sat down on bright verandahs watching the hills die. Nothing is trite once the beloved have vanished; empty clothes in a row, but perhaps our sadness tires them who cherished delight; not only are they relieved of our customary sorrow, they are without hunger, without any appetite, but are part of earth's vegetal fury; their veins grow with the wild mammy-apple, the open-handed breadfruit, their heart in the open pomegranate, in the sliced avocado; ground-doves pick from their palms; ants carry the freight of their sweetness, their absence in all that we eat, their savour that sweetens all of our multiple juices, their faith that we break and chew in a wedge of cassava, and here at first is the astonishment: that earth rejoices in the middle of our agony, earth that will have her for good: wind shines white stones and the shallows' voices. vii In spring, after the bear's self-burial, the stuttering crocuses open and choir, glaciers shelve and thaw, frozen ponds crack into maps, green lances spring from the melting fields, flags of rooks rise and tatter the pierced light, the crumbling quiet avalanches of an unsteady sky; the vole uncoils and the otter worries his sleek head through the verge's branches; crannies, culverts, and creeks roar with wrist-numbing water. Deer vault invisible hurdles and sniff the sharp air, squirrels spring up like questions, berries easily redden, 63 edges delight in their own shapes (whoever their shaper). But here there is one season, our viridian Eden is that of the primal garden that engendered decay, from the seed of a beetle's shard or a dead hare white and forgotten as winter with spring on its way. There is no change now, no cycles of spring, autumn, winter, nor an island's perpetual summer; she took time with her; no climate, no calendar except for this bountiful day. As poor Tom fed his last crust to trembling birds, as by reeds and cold pools John Clare blest these thin musicians, let the ants teach me again with the long lines of words, my business and duty, the lesson you taught your sons, to write of the light's bounty on familiar things that stand on the verge of translating themselves into news: the crab, the frigate that floats on cruciform wings, and that nailed and thorn riddled tree that opens its pews to the blackbird that hasn't forgotten her because it sings. ~ Derek Walcott,

855:Sea Dreams A city clerk, but gently born and bred; His wife, an unknown artist's orphan childOne babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old: They, thinking that her clear germander eye Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom, Came, with a month's leave given them, to the sea: For which his gains were dock'd, however small: Small were his gains, and hard his work; besides, Their slender household fortunes (for the man Had risk'd his little) like the little thrift, Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep: And oft, when sitting all alone, his face Would darken, as he cursed his credulousness, And that one unctuous mount which lured him, rogue, To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine. Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast, All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave, At close of day; slept, woke, and went the next, The Sabbath, pious variers from the church, To chapel; where a heated pulpiteer, Not preaching simple Christ to simple men, Announced the coming doom, and fulminated Against the scarlet woman and her creed: For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek'd `Thus, thus with violence,' ev'n as if he held The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself Were that great Angel; `Thus with violence Shall Babylon be cast into the sea; Then comes the close.' The gentle-hearted wife Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world; He at his own: but when the wordy storm Had ended, forth they came and paced the shore, Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves, Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed (The sootflake of so many a summer still Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea. So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff, Lingering about the thymy promontories, Till all the sails were darken'd in the west, 548 And rosed in the east: then homeward and to bed: Where she, who kept a tender Christian hope Haunting a holy text, and still to that Returning, as the bird returns, at night, `Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,' Said, `Love, forgive him:' but he did not speak; And silenced by that silence lay the wife, Remembering her dear Lord who died for all, And musing on the little lives of men, And how they mar this little by their feuds. But while the two were sleeping, a full tide Rose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocks Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke, And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell In vast sea-cataracts- ever and anon Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs Heard thro' the living roar. At this the babe, Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd and woke The mother, and the father suddenly cried, `A wreck, a wreck! ' then turn'd, and groaning said, `Forgive! How many will say, 'forgive,' and find A sort of absolution in the sound To hate a little longer! No; the sin That neither God nor man can well forgive, Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. Is it so true that second thoughts are best? Not first, and third, which are a riper first? Too ripe, too late! they come too late for use. Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast Something divine to warn them of their foes: And such a sense, when first I fronted him, Said, 'trust him not; ' but after, when I came To know him more, I lost it, knew him less; Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity; Sat at his table; drank his costly wines; Made more and more allowance for his talk; Went further, fool! and trusted him with all, All my poor scrapings from a dozen years Of dust and deskwork: there is no such mine, None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, 549 Not making. Ruin'd! ruin'd! the sea roars Ruin: a fearful night! ' `Not fearful; fair,' Said the good wife, `if every star in heaven Can make it fair: you do but bear the tide. Had you ill dreams? ' `O yes,' he said, `I dream'd Of such a tide swelling toward the land, And I from out the boundless outer deep Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. I thought the motion of the boundless deep Bore through the cave, and I was heaved upon it In darkness: then I saw one lovely star Larger and larger. 'What a world,' I thought, 'To live in! ' but in moving I found Only the landward exit of the cave, Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond: And near the light a giant woman sat, All over earthy, like a piece of earth, A pickaxe in her hand: then out I slipt Into a land all of sun and blossom, trees As high as heaven, and every bird that sings: And here the night-light flickering in my eyes Awoke me.' `That was then your dream,' she said, `Not sad, but sweet.' `So sweet, I lay,' said he, `And mused upon it, drifting up the stream In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced The broken vision; for I dream'd that still The motion of the great deep bore me on, And that the woman walk'd upon the brink: I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it: 'It came,' she said, 'by working in the mines:' O then to ask her of my shares, I thought; And ask'd; but not a word; she shook her head. And then the motion of the current ceased, 550 And there was rolling thunder; and we reach'd A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns; But she with her strong feet up the steep hill Trod out a path: I follow'd; and at top She pointed seaward: there a fleet of glass, That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me, Sailing along before a gloomy cloud That not one moment ceased to thunder, past In sunshine: right across its track there lay, Down in the water, a long reef of gold, Or what seem'd gold: and I was glad at first To think that in our often-ransack'd world Still so much gold was left; and then I fear'd Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it, And fearing waved my arm to warn them off; An idle signal, for the brittle fleet (I thought I could have died to save it) near'd, Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, and I woke, I heard the clash so clearly. Now I see My dream was Life; the woman honest Work; And my poor venture but a fleet of glass Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold.' `Nay,' said the kindly wife to comfort him, `You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke The glass with little Margaret's medicine it it; And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream: A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.' `No trifle,' groan'd the husband; `yesterday I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd That which I ask'd the woman in my dream. Like her, he shook his head. 'Show me the books! ' He dodged me with a long and loose account. 'The books, the books! ' but he, he could not wait, Bound on a matter he of life and death: When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten) Were open'd, I should find he meant me well; And then began to bloat himself, and ooze All over with the fat affectionate smile That makes the widow lean. 'My dearest friend, Have faith, have faith! We live by faith,' said he; 551 'And all things work together for the good Of those'- it makes me sick to quote him- last Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went. I stood like one that had received a blow: I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, A curse in his God-bless-you: then my eyes Pursued him down the street, and far away, Among the honest shoulders of the crowd, Read rascal in the motions of his back, And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee.' `Was he so bound, poor soul? ' said the good wife; `So are we all: but do not call him, love, Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. His gain is loss; for he that wrongs his friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd: And that drags down his life: then comes what comes Hereafter: and he meant, he said he meant, Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well.' ` 'With all his conscience and one eye askew'Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learn A man is likewise counsel for himself, Too often, in that silent court of yours'With all his conscience and one eye askew, So false, he partly took himself for true; Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry, Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye; Who, never naming God except for gain, So never took that useful name in vain; Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool, And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool; Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged, And snakelike slimed his victim ere he gorged; And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest Arising, did his holy oily best, Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, To spread the Word by which himself had thriven.' 552 How like you this old satire? ' `Nay,' she said `I loathe it: he had never kindly heart, Nor ever cared to better his own kind, Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. But will you hear MY dream, for I had one That altogether went to music? Still It awed me.' Then she told it, having dream'd Of that same coast. - But round the North, a light, A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay, And ever in it a low musical note Swell'd up and died; and, as it swell'd, a ridge Of breaker issued from the belt, and still Grew with the growing note, and when the note Had reach'd a thunderous fullness, on those cliffs Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as that Living within the belt) whereby she saw That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more, But huge cathedral fronts of every age, Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see. One after one: and then the great ridge drew, Lessening to the lessening music, back, And past into the belt and swell'd again Slowly to music: ever when it broke The statues, king or saint, or founder fell; Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left Came men and women in dark clusters round, Some crying, 'Set them up! they shall not fall! ' And others 'Let them lie, for they have fall'n.' And still they strove and wrangled: and she grieved In her strange dream, she knew not why, to find Their wildest wailings never out of tune With that sweet note; and ever as their shrieks Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave Returning, while none mark'd it, on the crowd Broke, mixt with awful light, and show'd their eyes Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept away 553 The men of flesh and blood, and men of stone, To the waste deeps together. `Then I fixt My wistful eyes on two fair images, Both crown'd with stars and high among the stars,The Virgin Mother standing with her child High up on one of those dark minster-frontsTill she began to totter, and the child Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke, And my dream awed me:- well- but what are dreams? Yours came but from the breaking of a glass, And mine but from the crying of a child.' `Child? No! ' said he, `but this tide's roar, and his, Our Boanerges with his threats of doom, And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms (Altho' I grant but little music there) Went both to make your dream: but if there were A music harmonizing our wild cries, Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about, Why, that would make our passions far too like The discords dear to the musician. NoOne shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven: True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune With nothing but the Devil! ' `'True' indeed! One of our town, but later by an hour Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore; While you were running down the sands, and made The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap, Good man, to please the child. She brought strange news. Why were you silent when I spoke to-night? I had set my heart on your forgiving him Before you knew. We MUST forgive the dead.' `Dead! who is dead? ' `The man your eye pursued. A little after you had parted with him, 554 He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease.' `Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart had he To die of? dead! ' `Ah, dearest, if there be A devil in man, there is an angel too, And if he did that wrong you charge him with, His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice (You spoke so loud) has roused the child again. Sleep, little birdie, sleep! will she not sleep Without her 'little birdie? ' well then, sleep, And I will sing you 'birdie.'' Saying this, The woman half turn'd round from him she loved, Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night Her other, found (for it was close beside) And half embraced the basket cradle-head With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'd The cradle, while she sang this baby song. What does the little birdie say In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away. `She sleeps: let us too, let all evil, sleep. 555 He also sleeps- another sleep than ours. He can do no more wrong: forgive him, dear, And I shall sleep the sounder! ' Then the man, `His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound: I do forgive him! ' `Thanks, my love,' she said, `Your own will be the sweeter,' and they slept. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

856:The Kalevala - Rune Vii WAINIOINEN'S RESCUE. Wainamoinen, old and truthful, Swam through all the deep-sea waters, Floating like a branch of aspen, Like a withered twig of willow; Swam six days in summer weather, Swam six nights in golden moonlight; Still before him rose the billows, And behind him sky and ocean. Two days more he swam undaunted, Two long nights be struggled onward. On the evening of the eighth day, Wainamoinen grew disheartened, Felt a very great discomfort, For his feet had lost their toe-nails, And his fingers dead and dying. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Sad and weary, spake as follows: 'Woe is me, my old life fated! Woe is me, misfortune's offspring! Fool was I when fortune, favored, To forsake my home and kindred, For a maiden fair and lovely, Here beneath the starry heavens, In this cruel waste of waters, Days and nights to swim and wander, Here to struggle with the storm-winds, To be tossed by heaving billows, In this broad sea's great expanses, In this ocean vast and boundless. 'Cold my life and sad and dreary, Painful too for me to linger Evermore within these waters, Thus to struggle for existence! Cannot know how I can prosper, How to find me food and shelter, In these cold and lifeless waters, 97 In these days of dire misfortune. Build I in the winds my dwelling? It will find no sure foundation. Build my home upon the billows? Surely would the waves destroy it.' Comes a bird from far Pohyola, From the occident, an eagle, Is not classed among the largest, Nor belongs he to the smallest; One wing touches on the waters, While the other sweeps the heavens; O'er the waves he wings his body, Strikes his beak upon the sea-cliffs, Flies about, then safely perches, Looks before him, looks behind him, There beholds brave Wainamoinen, On the blue-back of the ocean, And the eagle thus accosts him: 'Wherefore art thou, ancient hero, Swimming in the deep-sea billows? Thus the water-minstrel answered: 'I am ancient Wainamoinen, Friend and fellow of the waters I, the famous wisdom-singer; Went to woo a Northland maiden, Maiden from the dismal Darkland, Quickly galloped on my journey, Riding on the plain of ocean. I arrived one morning early, At the breaking of the day-dawn. At the bay of Luotola, Near Youkola's foaming river, Where the evil Youkahainen Slew my steed with bow and arrow, Tried to slay me with his weapons. On the waters fell I headlong, Plunged beneath the salt-sea's surface, From the saddle of the courser, From my dappled steed of magic. 'Then arose a mighty storm-wind, From the East and West a whirlwind, Washed me seaward on the surges, 98 Seaward, seaward, further, further, Where for many days I wandered, Swam and rocked upon the billows, Where as many nights I struggled, In the dashing waves and sea-foam, With the angry winds and waters. 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Cannot solve this heavy problem, How to live nor how to perish In this cruel salt-sea water. Build I in the winds my dwelling? It will find no sure foundation. Build my home upon the waters? Surely will the waves destroy it. Must I swim the sea forever, Must I live, or must I perish? What will happen if I perish, If I sink below the billows, Perish here from cold and hunger?' Thus the bird of Ether answered 'Be not in the least disheartened, Place thyself between my shoulders, On my back be firmly seated, I will lift thee from the waters, Bear thee with my pinions upward, Bear thee wheresoe'er thou willest. Well do I the day remember Where thou didst the eagle service, When thou didst the birds a favor. Thou didst leave the birch-tree standing, When were cleared the Osmo-forests, From the lands of Kalevala, As a home for weary song-birds, As a resting-place for eagles.' Then arises Wainamoinen, Lifts his head above the waters, Boldly rises from the sea-waves, Lifts his body from the billows, Seats himself upon the eagle, On the eagle's feathered shoulders. Quick aloft the huge bird bears him, Bears the ancient Wainamoinen, 99 Bears him on the path of zephyrs, Floating on the vernal breezes, To the distant shore of Northland, To the dismal Sariola, Where the eagle leaves his burden, Flies away to join his fellows. Wainamoinen, lone and weary, Straightway fell to bitter weeping, Wept and moaned in heavy accents, On the border of the blue-sea. On a cheerless promontory, With a hundred wounds tormented, Made by cruel winds and waters, With his hair and beard dishevelled By the surging of the billows. Three long days he wept disheartened Wept as many nights in anguish, Did not know what way to journey, Could not find a woodland foot-print, That would point him to the highway, To his home in Kalevala, To his much-loved home and kindred. Northland's young and slender maiden, With complexion fair and lovely, With the Sun had laid a wager, With the Sun and Moon a wager, Which should rise before the other, On the morning of the morrow. And the maiden rose in beauty, Long before the Sun had risen, Long before the Moon bad wakened, From their beds beneath the ocean. Ere the cock had crowed the day-break, Ere the Sun had broken slumber She had sheared six gentle lambkins, Gathered from them six white fleeces, Hence to make the rolls for spinning, Hence to form the threads for weaving, Hence to make the softest raiment, Ere the morning dawn had broken, Ere the sleeping Sun had risen. When this task the maid had ended, 100 Then she scrubbed the birchen tables, Sweeps the ground-floor of the stable, With a broom of leaves and branches From the birches of the Northland, Scrapes the sweepings well together On a shovel made of copper, Carries them beyond the stable, From the doorway to the meadow, To the meadow's distant border, Near the surges of the great-sea, Listens there and looks about her, Hears a wailing from the waters, Hears a weeping from the sea-shore, Hears a hero-voice lamenting. Thereupon she hastens homeward, Hastens to her mother's dwelling, These the words the maiden utters: 'I have heard a wail from ocean, Heard a weeping from the sea-coast, On the shore some one lamenting.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Ancient, toothless dame of Northland, Hastens from her door and court-yard, Through the meadow to the sea-shore, Listens well for sounds of weeping, For the wail of one in sorrow; Hears the voice of one in trouble, Hears a hero-cry of anguish. Thus the ancient Louhi answers: 'This is not the wail of children, These are not the tears of women, In this way weep bearded heroes; This the hero-cry of anguish.' Quick she pushed her boat to water, To the floods her goodly vessel, Straightway rows with lightning swiftness, To the weeping Wainamoinen; Gives the hero consolation, Comfort gives she to the minstrel Wailing in a grove of willows, In his piteous condition, Mid the alder-trees and aspens, 101 On the border of the salt-sea, Visage trembling, locks dishevelled. Ears, and eyes, and lips of sadness. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus addresses Wainamoinen: 'Tell me what has been thy folly, That thou art in this condition.' Old and truthful Wainamoinen Lifts aloft his bead and answers: 'Well I know that it is folly That has brought me all this trouble, Brought me to this land of strangers, To these regions unbefitting Happy was I with my kindred, In my distant home and country, There my name was named in honor.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied to Wainamoinen: 'I would gain the information, Should I be allowed to ask thee, Who thou art of ancient heroes, Who of all the host of heroes? This is Wainamoinen's answer: 'Formerly my name was mentioned, Often was I heard and honored, As a minstrel and magician, In the long and dreary winters, Called the 'Singer of the Northland, In the valleys of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala; No one thought that such misfortune Could befall wise Wainamoinen.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied in cheering accents 'Rise, O hero, from discomfort, From thy bed among the willows; Enter now upon the new-way, Come with me to yonder dwelling, There relate thy strange adventures, Tell the tale of thy misfortunes.' Now she takes the hapless hero, Lifts him from his bed of sorrow, 102 In her boat she safely seats him, And begins at once her rowing, Rows with steady hand and mighty To her home upon the sea-shore, To the dwellings of Pohyola. There she feeds the starving hero, Rests the ancient Wainamoinen, Gives him warmth, and food, and shelter, And the hero soon recovers. Then the hostess of Pohyola Questioned thus the ancient singer: 'Wherefore didst thou, Wainamoinen, Friend and fellow of the waters, Weep in sad and bitter accents, On the border of the ocean, Mid the aspens and the willows?' This is Wainamoinen's answer: Had good reason for my weeping, Cause enough for all my sorrow; Long indeed had I been swimming, Had been buffeting the billows, In the far outstretching waters. This the reason for my weeping; I have lived in toil and torture, Since I left my home and country, Left my native land and kindred, Came to this the land of strangers, To these unfamiliar portals. All thy trees have thorns to wound me, All thy branches, spines to pierce me, Even birches give me trouble, And the alders bring discomfort, My companions, winds and waters, Only does the Sun seem friendly, In this cold and cruel country, Near these unfamiliar portals.' Louhi thereupon made answer, Weep no longer, Wainamoinen, Grieve no more, thou friend of waters, Good for thee, that thou shouldst linger At our friendly homes and firesides; Thou shalt live with us and welcome, 103 Thou shalt sit at all our tables, Eat the salmon from our platters, Eat the sweetest of our bacon, Eat the whiting from our waters.' Answers thus old Wainamoinen, Grateful for the invitation: 'Never do I court strange tables, Though the food be rare and toothsome; One's own country is the dearest, One's own table is the sweetest, One's own home, the most attractive. Grant, kind Ukko, God above me, Thou Creator, full of mercy, Grant that I again may visit My beloved home and country. Better dwell in one's own country, There to drink Its healthful waters From the simple cups of birch-wood, Than in foreign lands to wander, There to drink the rarest liquors From the golden bowls of strangers.' Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Thus replied to the magician: 'What reward wilt thou award me, Should I take thee where thou willest, To thy native land and kindred, To thy much-loved home and fireside, To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala?' These the words of Wainamoinen: 'What would be reward sufficient, Shouldst thou take me to my people, To my home and distant country, To the borders of the Northland, There to hear the cuckoo singing, Hear the sacred cuckoo calling? Shall I give thee golden treasures, Fill thy cups with finest silver?' This is Louhi's simple answer: 'O thou ancient Wainamoinen, Only true and wise magician, Never will I ask for riches, 104 Never ask for gold nor silver; Gold is for the children's flowers, Silver for the stallion's jewels. Canst thou forge for me the Sampo, Hammer me the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, From the finest wool of lambkins? 'I will give thee too my daughter, Will reward thee through the maiden, Take thee to thy much-loved home-land, To the borders of Wainola, There to hear the cuckoo singing, Hear the sacred cuckoo calling.' Wainamoinen, much regretting, Gave this answer to her question: 'Cannot forge for thee the Sampo, Cannot make the lid in colors. Take me to my distant country, I will send thee Ilmarinen, He will forge for thee the Sampo, Hammer thee the lid in colors, He may win thy lovely maiden; Worthy smith is Ilmarinen, In this art is first and master; He, the one that forged the heavens. Forged the air a hollow cover; Nowhere see we hammer-traces, Nowhere find a single tongs-mark.' Thus replied the hostess, Louhi: 'Him alone I'll give my daughter, Promise him my child in marriage, Who for me will forge the Sampo, Hammer me the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers, From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, From the finest wool of lambkins.' Thereupon the hostess Louhi, Harnessed quick a dappled courser, Hitched him to her sledge of birch-wood, 105 Placed within it Wainamoinen, Placed the hero on the cross-bench, Made him ready for his journey; Then addressed the ancient minstrel, These the words that Louhi uttered: 'Do not raise thine eyes to heaven, Look not upward on thy journey, While thy steed is fresh and frisky, While the day-star lights thy pathway, Ere the evening star has risen; If thine eyes be lifted upward, While the day-star lights thy pathway, Dire misfortune will befall thee, Some sad fate will overtake thee.' Then the ancient Wainamoinen Fleetly drove upon his journey, Merrily he hastened homeward, Hastened homeward, happy-hearted From the ever-darksome Northland From the dismal Sariola. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

857:Epochs 'The epochs of our life are not in the facts, but in the silent thought by the wayside as we walk.'-Emerson I. Youth. Sweet empty sky of June without a stain, Faint, gray-blue dewy mists on far-off hills, Warm, yellow sunlight flooding mead and plain, That each dark copse and hollow overfills; The rippling laugh of unseen, rain-fed rills, Weeds delicate-flowered, white and pink and gold, A murmur and a singing manifold. The gray, austere old earth renews her youth With dew-lines, sunshine, gossamer, and haze. How still she lies and dreams, and veils the truth, While all is fresh as in the early days! What simple things be these the soul to raise To bounding joy, and make young pulses beat, With nameless pleasure finding life so sweet. On such a golden morning forth there floats, Between the soft earth and the softer sky, In the warm air adust with glistening motes, The mystic winged and flickering butterfly, A human soul, that hovers giddily Among the gardens of earth's paradise, Nor dreams of fairer fields or loftier skies. II. Regret. Thin summer rain on grass and bush and hedge, Reddening the road and deepening the green On wide, blurred lawn, and in close-tangled sedge; Veiling in gray the landscape stretched between These low broad meadows and the pale hills seen But dimly on the far horizon's edge. 63 In these transparent-clouded, gentle skies, Wherethrough the moist beams of the soft June sun Might any moment break, no sorrow lies, No note of grief in swollen brooks that run, No hint of woe in this subdued, calm tone Of all the prospect unto dreamy eyes. Only a tender, unnamed half-regret For the lost beauty of the gracious morn; A yearning aspiration, fainter yet, For brighter suns in joyous days unborn, Now while brief showers ruffle grass and corn, And all the earth lies shadowed, grave, and wet; Space for the happy soul to pause again From pure content of all unbroken bliss, To dream the future void of grief and pain, And muse upon the past, in reveries More sweet for knowledge that the present is Not all complete, with mist and clouds and rain. III. Longing. Look westward o'er the steaming rain-washed slopes, Now satisfied with sunshine, and behold Those lustrous clouds, as glorious as our hopes, Softened with feathery fleece of downy gold, In all fantastic, huddled shapes uprolled, Floating like dreams, and melting silently, In the blue upper regions of pure sky. The eye is filled with beauty, and the heart Rejoiced with sense of life and peace renewed; And yet at such an hour as this, upstart Vague myriad longing, restless, unsubdued, And causeless tears from melancholy mood, Strange discontent with earth's and nature's best, Desires and yearnings that may find no rest. 64 IV. Storm. Serene was morning with clear, winnowed air, But threatening soon the low, blue mass of cloud Rose in the west, with mutterings faint and rare At first, but waxing frequent and more loud. Thick sultry mists the distant hill-tops shroud; The sunshine dies; athwart black skies of lead Flash noiselessly thin threads of lightning red. Breathless the earth seems waiting some wild blow, Dreaded, but far too close to ward or shun. Scared birds aloft fly aimless, and below Naught stirs in fields whence light and life are gone, Save floating leaves, with wisps of straw and down, Upon the heavy air; 'neath blue-black skies, Livid and yellow the green landscape lies. And all the while the dreadful thunder breaks, Within the hollow circle of the hills, With gathering might, that angry echoes wakes, And earth and heaven with unused clamor fills. O'erhead still flame those strange electric thrills. A moment more,-behold! yon bolt struck home, And over ruined fields the storm hath come! V. Surprise. When the stunned soul can first lift tired eyes On her changed world of ruin, waste and wrack, Ah, what a pang of aching sharp surprise Brings all sweet memories of the lost past back, With wild self-pitying grief of one betrayed, Duped in a land of dreams where Truth is dead! Are these the heavens that she deemed were kind? Is this the world that yesterday was fair? What painted images of folk half-blind Be these who pass her by, as vague as air? What go they seeking? there is naught to find. Let them come nigh and hearken her despair. 65 A mocking lie is all she once believed, And where her heart throbbed, is a cold dead stone. This is a doom we never preconceived, Yet now she cannot fancy it undone. Part of herself, part of the whole hard scheme, All else is but the shadow of a dream. VI. Grief. There is a hungry longing in the soul, A craving sense of emptiness and pain, She may not satisfy nor yet control, For all the teeming world looks void and vain. No compensation in eternal spheres, She knows the loneliness of all her years. There is no comfort looking forth nor back, The present gives the lie to all her past. Will cruel time restore what she doth lack? Why was no shadow of this doom forecast? Ah! she hath played with many a keen-edged thing; Naught is too small and soft to turn and sting. In the unnatural glory of the hour, Exalted over time, and death, and fate, No earthly task appears beyond her power, No possible endurance seemeth great. She knows her misery and her majesty, And recks not if she be to live or die. VII. Acceptance. Yea, she hath looked Truth grimly face to face, And drained unto the lees the proffered cup. This silence is not patience, nor the grace Of recognition, meekly offered up, But mere acceptance fraught with keenest pain, Seeing that all her struggles must be vain. 66 Her future clear and terrible outlies,This burden to be borne through all her days, This crown of thorns pressed down above her eyes, This weight of trouble she may never raise. No reconcilement doth she ask nor wait; Knowing such things are, she endures her fate. No brave endeavor of the broken will To cling to such poor stays as will abide (Although the waves be wild and angry still) After the lapsing of the swollen tide. No fear of further loss, no hope of gain, Naught but the apathy of weary pain. VIII. Loneliness. All stupor of surprise hath passed away; She sees, with clearer vision than before, A world far off of light and laughter gay, Herself alone and lonely evermore. Folk come and go, and reach her in no wise, Mere flitting phantoms to her heavy eyes. All outward things, that once seemed part of her, Fall from her, like the leaves in autumn shed. She feels as one embalmed in spice and myrrh, With the heart eaten out, a long time dead; Unchanged without, the features and the form; Within, devoured by the thin red worm. By her own prowess she must stand or fall, This grief is to be conquered day by day. Who could befriend her? who could make this small, Or her strength great? she meets it as she may. A weary struggle and a constant pain, She dreams not they may ever cease nor wane. IX. Sympathy. It comes not in such wise as she had deemed, 67 Else might she still have clung to her despair. More tender, grateful than she could have dreamed, Fond hands passed pitying over brows and hair, And gentle words borne softly through the air, Calming her weary sense and wildered mind, By welcome, dear communion with her kind. Ah! she forswore all words as empty lies; What speech could help, encourage, or repair? Yet when she meets these grave, indulgent eyes, Fulfilled with pity, simplest words are fair, Caressing, meaningless, that do not dare To compensate or mend, but merely soothe With hopeful visions after bitter Truth. One who through conquered trouble had grown wise, To read the grief unspoken, unexpressed, The misery of the blank and heavy eyes,Or through youth's infinite compassion guessed The heavy burden,-such a one brought rest, And bade her lay aside her doubts and fears, While the hard pain dissolved in blessed tears. X. Patience. The passion of despair is quelled at last; The cruel sense of undeserved wrong, The wild self-pity, these are also past; She knows not what may come, but she is strong; She feels she hath not aught to lose nor gain, Her patience is the essence of all pain. As one who sits beside a lapsing stream, She sees the flow of changeless day by day, Too sick and tired to think, too sad to dream, Nor cares how soon the waters slip away, Nor where they lead; at the wise God's decree, She will depart or bide indifferently. There is deeper pathos in the mild And settled sorrow of the quiet eyes, 68 Than in the tumults of the anguish wild, That made her curse all things beneath the skies; No question, no reproaches, no complaint, Hers is the holy calm of some meek saint. XI. Hope. Her languid pulses thrill with sudden hope, That will not be forgot nor cast aside, And life in statelier vistas seems to ope, Illimitably lofty, long, and wide. What doth she know? She is subdued and mild, Quiet and docile 'as a weaned child.' If grief came in such unimagined wise, How may joy dawn? In what undreamed-of hour, May the light break with splendor of surprise, Disclosing all the mercy and the power? A baseless hope, yet vivid, keen, and bright, As the wild lightning in the starless night. She knows not whence it came, nor where it passed, But it revealed, in one brief flash of flame, A heaven so high, a world so rich and vast, That, full of meek contrition and mute shame, In patient silence hopefully withdrawn, She bows her head, and bides the certain dawn. XII. Compensation. 'T is not alone that black and yawning void That makes her heart ache with this hungry pain, But the glad sense of life hath been destroyed, The lost delight may never come again. Yet myriad serious blessings with grave grace Arise on every side to fill their place. For much abides in her so lonely life,The dear companionship of her own kind, Love where least looked for, quiet after strife, 69 Whispers of promise upon every wind, A quickened insight, in awakened eyes, For the new meaning of the earth and skies. The nameless charm about all things hath died, Subtle as aureole round a shadow's head, Cast on the dewy grass at morning-tide; Yet though the glory and the joy be fled, 'T is much her own endurance to have weighed, And wrestled with God's angels, unafraid. XIII. Faith. She feels outwearied, as though o'er her head A storm of mighty billows broke and passed. Whose hand upheld her? Who her footsteps led To this green haven of sweet rest at last? What strength was hers, unreckoned and unknown? What love sustained when she was most alone? Unutterably pathetic her desire, To reach, with groping arms outstretched in prayer, Something to cling to, to uplift her higher From this low world of coward fear and care, Above disaster, that her will may be At one with God's, accepting his decree. Though by no reasons she be justified, Yet strangely brave in Evil's very face, She deems this want must needs be satisfied, Though here all slips from out her weak embrace. And in blind ecstasy of perfect faith, With her own dream her prayer she answereth. XIV. Work. Yet life is not a vision nor a prayer, But stubborn work; she may not shun her task. After the first compassion, none will spare Her portion and her work achieved, to ask. 70 She pleads for respite,-she will come ere long When, resting by the roadside, she is strong. Nay, for the hurrying throng of passers-by Will crush her with their onward-rolling stream. Much must be done before the brief light die; She may not loiter, rapt in the vain dream. With unused trembling hands, and faltering feet, She staggers forth, her lot assigned to meet. But when she fills her days with duties done, Strange vigor comes, she is restored to health. New aims, new interests rise with each new sun, And life still holds for her unbounded wealth. All that seemed hard and toilsome now proves small, And naught may daunt her,-she hath strength for all. XV. Victory. How strange, in some brief interval of rest, Backward to look on her far-stretching past. To see how much is conquered and repressed, How much is gained in victory at last! The shadow is not lifted,-but her faith, Strong from life's miracles, now turns toward death. Though much be dark where once rare splendor shone, Yet the new light has touched high peaks unguessed In her gold, mist-bathed dawn, and one by one New outlooks loom from many a mountain crest. She breathes a loftier, purer atmosphere, And life's entangled paths grow straight and clear. Nor will Death prove an all-unwelcome guest; The struggle has been toilsome to this end, Sleep will be sweet, and after labor rest, And all will be atoned with him to friend. Much must be reconciled, much justified, And yet she feels she will be satisfied. 71 XVI. Peace. The calm outgoing of a long, rich day, Checkered with storm and sunshine, gloom and light, Now passing in pure, cloudless skies away, Withdrawing into silence of blank night. Thick shadows settle on the landscape bright, Like the weird cloud of death that falls apace On the still features of the passive face. Soothing and gentle as a mother's kiss, The touch that stopped the beating of the heart. A look so blissfully serene as this, Not all the joy of living could impart. With dauntless faith and courage therewithal, The Master found her ready at his call. On such a golden evening forth there floats, Between the grave earth and the glowing sky In the clear air, unvexed with hazy motes, The mystic-winged and flickering butterfly, A human soul, that drifts at liberty, Ah! who can tell to what strange paradise, To what undreamed-of fields and lofty skies.! ~ Emma Lazarus,

858:Jenny Lazy laughing languid Jenny, Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea, Whose head upon my knee to-night Rests for a while, as if grown light With all our dances and the sound To which the wild tunes spun you round: Fair Jenny mine, the thoughtless queen Of kisses which the blush between Could hardly make much daintier; Whose eyes are as blue skies, whose hair Is countless gold incomparable: Fresh flower, scarce touched with signs that tell Of Love's exuberant hotbed:—Nay, Poor flower left torn since yesterday Until to-morrow leave you bare; Poor handful of bright spring-water Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face; Poor shameful Jenny, full of grace Thus with your head upon my knee;— Whose person or whose purse may be The lodestar of your reverie? This room of yours, my Jenny, looks A change from mine so full of books, Whose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth, So many captive hours of youth,— The hours they thieve from day and night To make one's cherished work come right, And leave it wrong for all their theft, Even as to-night my work was left: Until I vowed that since my brain And eyes of dancing seemed so fain, My feet should have some dancing too:— And thus it was I met with you. Well, I suppose 'twas hard to part, For here I am. And now, sweetheart, You seem too tired to get to bed. It was a careless life I led When rooms like this were scarce so strange Not long ago. What breeds the change,— 133 The many aims or the few years? Because to-night it all appears Something I do not know again. The cloud's not danced out of my brain— The cloud that made it turn and swim While hour by hour the books grew dim. Why, Jenny, as I watch you there,— For all your wealth of loosened hair, Your silk ungirdled and unlac'd And warm sweets open to the waist, All golden in the lamplight's gleam,— You know not what a book you seem, Half-read by lightning in a dream! How should you know, my Jenny? Nay, And I should be ashamed to say:— Poor beauty, so well worth a kiss! But while my thought runs on like this With wasteful whims more than enough, I wonder what you're thinking of. If of myself you think at all, What is the thought?—conjectural On sorry matters best unsolved?— Or inly is each grace revolved To fit me with a lure?—or (sad To think!) perhaps you're merely glad That I'm not drunk or ruffianly And let you rest upon my knee. For sometimes, were the truth confess'd, You're thankful for a little rest,— Glad from the crush to rest within, From the heart-sickness and the din Where envy's voice at virtue's pitch Mocks you because your gown is rich; And from the pale girl's dumb rebuke, Whose ill-clad grace and toil-worn look Proclaim the strength that keeps her weak, And other nights than yours bespeak; And from the wise unchildish elf, To schoolmate lesser than himself Pointing you out, what thing you are:— Yes, from the daily jeer and jar, From shame and shame's outbraving too, 134 Is rest not sometimes sweet to you?— But most from the hatefulness of man, Who spares not to end what he began, Whose acts are ill and his speech ill, Who, having used you at his will, Thrusts you aside, as when I dine I serve the dishes and the wine. Well, handsome Jenny mine, sit up: I've filled our glasses, let us sup, And do not let me think of you, Lest shame of yours suffice for two. What, still so tired? Well, well then, keep Your head there, so you do not sleep; But that the weariness may pass And leave you merry, take this glass. Ah! lazy lily hand, more bless'd If ne'er in rings it had been dress'd Nor ever by a glove conceal'd! Behold the lilies of the field, They toil not neither do they spin; (So doth the ancient text begin,— Not of such rest as one of these Can share.) Another rest and ease Along each summer-sated path From its new lord the garden hath, Than that whose spring in blessings ran Which praised the bounteous husbandman, Ere yet, in days of hankering breath, The lilies sickened unto death. What, Jenny, are your lilies dead? Aye, and the snow-white leaves are spread Like winter on the garden-bed. But you had roses left in May,— They were not gone too. Jenny, nay, But must your roses die, and those Their purfled buds that should unclose? Even so; the leaves are curled apart, Still red as from the broken heart, And here's the naked stem of thorns. Nay, nay, mere words. Here nothing warns As yet of winter. Sickness here Or want alone could waken fear,— 135 Nothing but passion wrings a tear. Except when there may rise unsought Haply at times a passing thought Of the old days which seem to be Much older than any history That is written in any book; When she would lie in fields and look Along the ground through the blown grass And wonder where the city was, Far out of sight, whose broil and bale They told her then for a child's tale. Jenny, you know the city now. A child can tell the tale there, how Some things which are not yet enroll'd In market-lists are bought and sold Even till the early Sunday light, When Saturday night is market-night Everywhere, be it dry or wet, And market-night in the Haymarket. Our learned London children know, Poor Jenny, all your pride and woe; Have seen your lifted silken skirt Advertise dainties through the dirt; Have seen your coach-wheels splash rebuke On virtue; and have learned your look When, wealth and health slipped past, you stare Along the streets alone, and there, Round the long park, across the bridge, The cold lamps at the pavement's edge Wind on together and apart, A fiery serpent for your heart. Let the thoughts pass, an empty cloud! Suppose I were to think aloud,— What if to her all this were said? Why, as a volume seldom read Being opened halfway shuts again, So might the pages of her brain Be parted at such words, and thence Close back upon the dusty sense. For is there hue or shape defin'd In Jenny's desecrated mind, Where all contagious currents meet, 136 A Lethe of the middle street? Nay, it reflects not any face, Nor sound is in its sluggish pace, But as they coil those eddies clot, And night and day remember not. Why, Jenny, you're asleep at last!— Asleep, poor Jenny, hard and fast,— So young and soft and tired; so fair, With chin thus nestled in your hair, Mouth quiet, eyelids almost blue As if some sky of dreams shone through! Just as another woman sleeps! Enough to throw one's thoughts in heaps Of doubt and horror,—what to say Or think,—this awful secret sway, The potter's power over the clay! Of the same lump (it has been said) For honour and dishonour made, Two sister vessels. Here is one. My cousin Nell is fond of fun, And fond of dress, and change, and praise, So mere a woman in her ways: And if her sweet eyes rich in youth Are like her lips that tell the truth, My cousin Nell is fond of love. And she's the girl I'm proudest of. Who does not prize her, guard her well? The love of change, in cousin Nell, Shall find the best and hold it dear: The unconquered mirth turn quieter Not through her own, through others' woe: The conscious pride of beauty glow Beside another's pride in her, One little part of all they share. For Love himself shall ripen these In a kind soil to just increase Through years of fertilizing peace. Of the same lump (as it is said) For honour and dishonour made, Two sister vessels. Here is one. It makes a goblin of the sun. So pure,—so fall'n! How dare to think 137 Of the first common kindred link? Yet, Jenny, till the world shall burn It seems that all things take their turn; And who shall say but this fair tree May need, in changes that may be, Your children's children's charity? Scorned then, no doubt, as you are scorn'd! Shall no man hold his pride forewarn'd Till in the end, the Day of Days, At Judgment, one of his own race, As frail and lost as you, shall rise,— His daughter, with his mother's eyes? How Jenny's clock ticks on the shelf! Might not the dial scorn itself That has such hours to register? Yet as to me, even so to her Are golden sun and silver moon, In daily largesse of earth's boon, Counted for life-coins to one tune. And if, as blindfold fates are toss'd, Through some one man this life be lost, Shall soul not somehow pay for soul? Fair shines the gilded aureole In which our highest painters place Some living woman's simple face. And the stilled features thus descried As Jenny's long throat droops aside,— The shadows where the cheeks are thin, And pure wide curve from ear to chin,— With Raffael's, Leonardo's hand To show them to men's souls, might stand, Whole ages long, the whole world through, For preachings of what God can do. What has man done here? How atone, Great God, for this which man has done? And for the body and soul which by Man's pitiless doom must now comply With lifelong hell, what lullaby Of sweet forgetful second birth Remains? All dark. No sign on earth What measure of God's rest endows The many mansions of his house. 138 If but a woman's heart might see Such erring heart unerringly For once! But that can never be. Like a rose shut in a book In which pure women may not look, For its base pages claim control To crush the flower within the soul; Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings, Pale as transparent Psyche-wings, To the vile text, are traced such things As might make lady's cheek indeed More than a living rose to read; So nought save foolish foulness may Watch with hard eyes the sure decay; And so the life-blood of this rose, Puddled with shameful knowledge, flows Through leaves no chaste hand may unclose: Yet still it keeps such faded show Of when 'twas gathered long ago, That the crushed petals' lovely grain, The sweetness of the sanguine stain, Seen of a woman's eyes, must make Her pitiful heart, so prone to ache, Love roses better for its sake:— Only that this can never be:— Even so unto her sex is she. Yet, Jenny, looking long at you, The woman almost fades from view. A cipher of man's changeless sum Of lust, past, present, and to come, Is left. A riddle that one shrinks To challenge from the scornful sphinx. Like a toad within a stone Seated while Time crumbles on; Which sits there since the earth was curs'd For Man's transgression at the first; Which, living through all centuries, Not once has seen the sun arise; Whose life, to its cold circle charmed, The earth's whole summers have not warmed; Which always—whitherso the stone Be flung—sits there, deaf, blind, alone;— 139 Aye, and shall not be driven out Till that which shuts him round about Break at the very Master's stroke, And the dust thereof vanish as smoke, And the seed of Man vanish as dust:— Even so within this world is Lust. Come, come, what use in thoughts like this? Poor little Jenny, good to kiss,— You'd not believe by what strange roads Thought travels, when your beauty goads A man to-night to think of toads! Jenny, wake up…. Why, there's the dawn! And there's an early waggon drawn To market, and some sheep that jog Bleating before a barking dog; And the old streets come peering through Another night that London knew; And all as ghostlike as the lamps. So on the wings of day decamps My last night's frolic. Glooms begin To shiver off as lights creep in Past the gauze curtains half drawn-to, And the lamp's doubled shade grows blue,— Your lamp, my Jenny, kept alight, Like a wise virgin's, all one night! And in the alcove coolly spread Glimmers with dawn your empty bed; And yonder your fair face I see Reflected lying on my knee, Where teems with first foreshadowings Your pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings: And on your bosom all night worn Yesterday's rose now droops forlorn, But dies not yet this summer morn. And now without, as if some word Had called upon them that they heard, The London sparrows far and nigh Clamour together suddenly; And Jenny's cage-bird grown awake Here in their song his part must take, Because here too the day doth break. And somehow in myself the dawn 140 Among stirred clouds and veils withdrawn Strikes greyly on her. Let her sleep. But will it wake her if I heap These cushions thus beneath her head Where my knee was? No,—there's your bed, My Jenny, while you dream. And there I lay among your golden hair, Perhaps the subject of your dreams, These golden coins. For still one deems That Jenny's flattering sleep confers New magic on the magic purse,— Grim web, how clogged with shrivelled flies! Between the threads fine fumes arise And shape their pictures in the brain. There roll no streets in glare and rain, Nor flagrant man-swine whets his tusk; But delicately sighs in musk The homage of the dim boudoir; Or like a palpitating star Thrilled into song, the opera-night Breathes faint in the quick pulse of light; Or at the carriage-window shine Rich wares for choice; or, free to dine, Whirls through its hour of health (divine For her) the concourse of the Park. And though in the discounted dark Her functions there and here are one, Beneath the lamps and in the sun There reigns at least the acknowledged belle Apparelled beyond parallel. Ah Jenny, yes, we know your dreams. For even the Paphian Venus seems A goddess o'er the realms of love, When silver-shrined in shadowy grove: Aye, or let offerings nicely plac'd But hide Priapus to the waist, And whoso looks on him shall see An eligible deity. Why, Jenny, waking here alone May help you to remember one, Though all the memory's long outworn 141 Of many a double-pillowed morn. I think I see you when you wake, And rub your eyes for me, and shake My gold, in rising, from your hair, A Danaë for a moment there. Jenny, my love rang true! for still Love at first sight is vague, until That tinkling makes him audible. And must I mock you to the last, Ashamed of my own shame,—aghast Because some thoughts not born amiss Rose at a poor fair face like this? Well, of such thoughts so much I know: In my life, as in hers, they show, By a far gleam which I may near, A dark path I can strive to clear. Only one kiss. Good-bye, my dear. ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

859:The Three Taverns When the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us as far as Appii Forum, and The Three Taverns.—(Acts xxviii, 15) Herodion, Apelles, Amplias, And Andronicus? Is it you I see— At last? And is it you now that are gazing As if in doubt of me? Was I not saying That I should come to Rome? I did say that; And I said furthermore that I should go On westward, where the gateway of the world Lets in the central sea. I did say that, But I say only, now, that I am Paul— A prisoner of the Law, and of the Lord A voice made free. If there be time enough To live, I may have more to tell you then Of western matters. I go now to Rome, Where Cæsar waits for me, and I shall wait, And Cæsar knows how long. In Cæsarea There was a legend of Agrippa saying In a light way to Festus, having heard My deposition, that I might be free, Had I stayed free of Cæsar; but the word Of God would have it as you see it is— And here I am. The cup that I shall drink Is mine to drink—the moment or the place Not mine to say. If it be now in Rome, Be it now in Rome; and if your faith exceed The shadow cast of hope, say not of me Too surely or too soon that years and shipwreck, And all the many deserts I have crossed That are not named or regioned, have undone Beyond the brevities of our mortal healing The part of me that is the least of me. You see an older man than he who fell Prone to the earth when he was nigh Damascus, Where the great light came down; yet I am he That fell, and he that saw, and he that heard. And I am here, at last; and if at last 348 I give myself to make another crumb For this pernicious feast of time and men— Well, I have seen too much of time and men To fear the ravening or the wrath of either. Yes, it is Paul you see—the Saul of Tarsus That was a fiery Jew, and had men slain For saying Something was beyond the Law, And in ourselves. I fed my suffering soul Upon the Law till I went famishing, Not knowing that I starved. How should I know, More then than any, that the food I had— What else it may have been—was not for me? My fathers and their fathers and their fathers Had found it good, and said there was no other, And I was of the line. When Stephen fell, Among the stones that crushed his life away, There was no place alive that I could see For such a man. Why should a man be given To live beyond the Law? So I said then, As men say now to me. How then do I Persist in living? Is that what you ask? If so, let my appearance be for you No living answer; for Time writes of death On men before they die, and what you see Is not the man. The man that you see not— The man within the man—is most alive; Though hatred would have ended, long ago, The bane of his activities. I have lived, Because the faith within me that is life Endures to live, and shall, till soon or late, Death, like a friend unseen, shall say to me My toil is over and my work begun. How often, and how many a time again, Have I said I should be with you in Rome! He who is always coming never comes, Or comes too late, you may have told yourselves; And I may tell you now that after me, Whether I stay for little or for long, The wolves are coming. Have an eye for them, And a more careful ear for their confusion 349 Than you need have much longer for the sound Of what I tell you—should I live to say More than I say to Cæsar. What I know Is down for you to read in what is written; And if I cloud a little with my own Mortality the gleam that is immortal, I do it only because I am I— Being on earth and of it, in so far As time flays yet the remnant. This you know; And if I sting men, as I do sometimes, With a sharp word that hurts, it is because Man’s habit is to feel before he sees; And I am of a race that feels. Moreover, The world is here for what is not yet here For more than are a few; and even in Rome, Where men are so enamored of the Cross That fame has echoed, and increasingly, The music of your love and of your faith To foreign ears that are as far away As Antioch and Haran, yet I wonder How much of love you know, and if your faith Be the shut fruit of words. If so, remember Words are but shells unfilled. Jews have at least A Law to make them sorry they were born If they go long without it; and these Gentiles, For the first time in shrieking history, Have love and law together, if so they will, For their defense and their immunity In these last days. Rome, if I know the name, Will have anon a crown of thorns and fire Made ready for the wreathing of new masters, Of whom we are appointed, you and I,— And you are still to be when I am gone, Should I go presently. Let the word fall, Meanwhile, upon the dragon-ridden field Of circumstance, either to live or die; Concerning which there is a parable, Made easy for the comfort and attention Of those who preach, fearing they preach in vain. You are to plant, and then to plant again Where you have gathered, gathering as you go; For you are in the fields that are eternal, 350 And you have not the burden of the Lord Upon your mortal shoulders. What you have Is a light yoke, made lighter by the wearing, Till it shall have the wonder and the weight Of a clear jewel, shining with a light Wherein the sun and all the fiery stars May soon be fading. When Gamaliel said That if they be of men these things are nothing But if they be of God, they are for none To overthrow, he spoke as a good Jew, And one who stayed a Jew; and he said all. And you know, by the temper of your faith, How far the fire is in you that I felt Before I knew Damascus. A word here, Or there, or not there, or not anywhere, Is not the Word that lives and is the life; And you, therefore, need weary not yourselves With jealous aches of others. If the world Were not a world of aches and innovations, Attainment would have no more joy of it. There will be creeds and schisms, creeds in creeds, And schisms in schisms; myriads will be done To death because a farthing has two sides, And is at last a farthing. Telling you this, I, who bid men to live, appeal to Cæsar. Once I had said the ways of God were dark, Meaning by that the dark ways of the Law. Such is the Glory of our tribulations; For the Law kills the flesh that kills the Law, And we are then alive. We have eyes then; And we have then the Cross between two worlds— To guide us, or to blind us for a time, Till we have eyes indeed. The fire that smites A few on highways, changing all at once, Is not for all. The power that holds the world Away from God that holds himself away— Farther away than all your works and words Are like to fly without the wings of faith— Was not, nor ever shall be, a small hazard Enlivening the ways of easy leisure Or the cold road of knowledge. When our eyes Have wisdom, we see more than we remember; 351 And the old world of our captivities May then become a smitten glimpse of ruin, Like one where vanished hewers have had their day Of wrath on Lebanon. Before we see, Meanwhile, we suffer; and I come to you, At last, through many storms and through much night. Yet whatsoever I have undergone, My keepers in this instance are not hard. But for the chance of an ingratitude, I might indeed be curious of their mercy, And fearful of their leisure while I wait, A few leagues out of Rome. Men go to Rome, Not always to return—but not that now. Meanwhile, I seem to think you look at me With eyes that are at last more credulous Of my identity. You remark in me No sort of leaping giant, though some words Of mine to you from Corinth may have leapt A little through your eyes into your soul. I trust they were alive, and are alive Today; for there be none that shall indite So much of nothing as the man of words Who writes in the Lord’s name for his name’s sake And has not in his blood the fire of time To warm eternity. Let such a man— If once the light is in him and endures— Content himself to be the general man, Set free to sift the decencies and thereby To learn, except he be one set aside For sorrow, more of pleasure than of pain; Though if his light be not the light indeed, But a brief shine that never really was, And fails, leaving him worse than where he was, Then shall he be of all men destitute. And here were not an issue for much ink, Or much offending faction among scribes. The Kingdom is within us, we are told; And when I say to you that we possess it In such a measure as faith makes it ours, I say it with a sinner’s privilege 352 Of having seen and heard, and seen again, After a darkness; and if I affirm To the last hour that faith affords alone The Kingdom entrance and an entertainment, I do not see myself as one who says To man that he shall sit with folded hands Against the Coming. If I be anything, I move a driven agent among my kind, Establishing by the faith of Abraham, And by the grace of their necessities, The clamoring word that is the word of life Nearer than heretofore to the solution Of their tomb-serving doubts. If I have loosed A shaft of language that has flown sometimes A little higher than the hearts and heads Of nature’s minions, it will yet be heard, Like a new song that waits for distant ears. I cannot be the man that I am not; And while I own that earth is my affliction, I am a man of earth, who says not all To all alike. That were impossible. Even as it were so that He should plant A larger garden first. But you today Are for the larger sowing; and your seed, A little mixed, will have, as He foresaw, The foreign harvest of a wider growth, And one without an end. Many there are, And are to be, that shall partake of it, Though none may share it with an understanding That is not his alone. We are all alone; And yet we are all parcelled of one order— Jew, Gentile, or barbarian in the dark Of wildernesses that are not so much As names yet in a book. And there are many, Finding at last that words are not the Word, And finding only that, will flourish aloft, Like heads of captured Pharisees on pikes, Our contradictions and discrepancies; And there are many more will hang themselves Upon the letter, seeing not in the Word The friend of all who fail, and in their faith A sword of excellence to cut them down. 353 As long as there are glasses that are dark— And there are many—we see darkly through them; All which have I conceded and set down In words that have no shadow. What is dark Is dark, and we may not say otherwise; Yet what may be as dark as a lost fire For one of us, may still be for another A coming gleam across the gulf of ages, And a way home from shipwreck to the shore; And so, through pangs and ills and desperations, There may be light for all. There shall be light. As much as that, you know. You cannot say This woman or that man will be the next On whom it falls; you are not here for that. You ministration is to be for others The firing of a rush that may for them Be soon the fire itself. The few at first Are fighting for the multitude at last; Therefore remember what Gamaliel said Before you, when the sick were lying down In streets all night for Peter’s passing shadow. Fight, and say what you feel; say more than words. Give men to know that even their days of earth To come are more than ages that are gone. Say what you feel, while you have time to say it. Eternity will answer for itself, Without your intercession; yet the way For many is a long one, and as dark, Meanwhile, as dreams of hell. See not your toil Too much, and if I be away from you, Think of me as a brother to yourselves, Of many blemishes. Beware of stoics, And give your left hand to grammarians; And when you seem, as many a time you may, To have no other friend than hope, remember That you are not the first, or yet the last. The best of life, until we see beyond The shadows of ourselves (and they are less Than even the blindest of indignant eyes Would have them) is in what we do not know. 354 Make, then, for all your fears a place to sleep With all your faded sins; nor think yourselves Egregious and alone for your defects Of youth and yesterday. I was young once; And there’s a question if you played the fool With a more fervid and inherent zeal Than I have in my story to remember, Or gave your necks to folly’s conquering foot, Or flung yourselves with an unstudied aim, More frequently than I. Never mind that. Man’s little house of days will hold enough, Sometimes, to make him wish it were not his, But it will not hold all. Things that are dead Are best without it, and they own their death By virtue of their dying. Let them go,— But think you not the world is ashes yet, And you have all the fire. The world is here Today, and it may not be gone tomorrow; For there are millions, and there may be more, To make in turn a various estimation Of its old ills and ashes, and the traps Of its apparent wrath. Many with ears That hear not yet, shall have ears given to them, And then they shall hear strangely. Many with eyes That are incredulous of the Mystery Shall yet be driven to feel, and then to read Where language has an end and is a veil, Not woven of our words. Many that hate Their kind are soon to know that without love Their faith is but the perjured name of nothing. I that have done some hating in my time See now no time for hate; I that have left, Fading behind me like familiar lights That are to shine no more for my returning, Home, friends, and honors,—I that have lost all else For wisdom, and the wealth of it, say now To you that out of wisdom has come love, That measures and is of itself the measure Of works and hope and faith. Your longest hours Are not so long that you may torture them And harass not yourselves; and the last days Are on the way that you prepare for them, 355 And was prepared for you, here in a world Where you have sinned and suffered, striven and seen. If you be not so hot for counting them Before they come that you consume yourselves, Peace may attend you all in these last days— And me, as well as you. Yes, even in Rome. Well, I have talked and rested, though I fear My rest has not been yours; in which event, Forgive one who is only seven leagues From Cæsar. When I told you I should come, I did not see myself the criminal You contemplate, for seeing beyond the Law That which the Law saw not. But this, indeed, Was good of you, and I shall not forget; No, I shall not forget you came so far To meet a man so dangerous. Well, farewell. They come to tell me I am going now— With them. I hope that we shall meet again, But none may say what he shall find in Rome. ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,

860:Tekel WHEN on the West broke light from out the East, Then from the splendour and the shame of Rome-Renouncing wealth and pleasure, game and feast, And all the joys of his polluted home, Desiring not the gifts his world could give, If haply he might save his soul and live-Into the desert's heart a man had come. His God had died for love of him, and he For love of God would die to all of these Sweet sins he had not known for sins, and be Estranged for evermore from rest and ease; His days in penance spent might half atone For the iniquity of days bygone, And in the desert might his soul find peace. Crossing wide seas, he reached an alien land: By mighty harbours and broad streams he passed Into an arid, trackless waste of sand, And journeying ever faster and more fast, Left men behind, and onward still did press To a ruined city in the wilderness, And there he stayed his restless feet at last. There stood long lines of columns richly wrought, Colossal statues of forgotten kings, Vast shadowy temples, court within dim court, Great shapes of man-faced beasts with wide firm wings; And in and out each broken colonnade The bright-eyed, swift, green-gleaming lizards played, In that still place the only living things. But when the moon unveiled her still, white face, And over sand and stone her glory shed-Another life awoke within the place, 241 And great beasts stalked, with silent heavy tread, Through pillared vista, over marble floor, And the stern menace of the lion's roar Made horrible the city of the dead. Like a great bird soft sinking on its nest, Too lightly to disturb its tender brood, The night, with dark spread wings and cloudy breast, Sank on the desert city's solitude As he drew near. The shadows grew more dense, The silence stronger; weariness intense Fell on him then, and only rest seemed good. He passed between tall pillars' sculptured gloom, And entered a deserted, lightless fane, And knew not if it temple were, or tomb, But slept and slept, till over all the plain The level sunbeams spread, and earth was bright With morning's radiant resurrection-light; Then he awoke, refreshed and strong again. Through empty courts he passed, and lo! a wall Whereon was imaged all the languid grace Of fairest women, and among them all Shone like a star one lovely Eastern face: Undimmed by centuries the colours were, Bright as when first the painter found her fair, And set her there to glorify the place. All he had fled from suddenly drew near, And from her eyes a challenge seemed down-thrown; 'Ah, fool!' she seemed to say, 'what dost thou here? How canst thou bear this stern, sad life alone, When I--not just this face that copies me, But I myself--stretch arms and lips to thee, From that same world whose joys thou hast foregone?' 242 His heart leaped up like flame--she was so fair; Then with a start he hid his eyes and fled Into the hotness of the outer air. His pulse beat quickly. 'Oh, my God!' he said, 'These be the heart made pure, and cleansèd brain! I vow to Thee to never look again On women, real or painted, quick or dead!' So lest within the city he should find, To tempt his soul, still some accursèd thing, He left the palaces and courts behind, Found a green spot, with date-palms and a spring And built himself a rough stone shelter there And saw no more the face, so strange and fair That had begot such vain imagining. He tilled the patch of land, and planted seeds Which from his own far country he had brought; And, caring little for his body's needs, Strove still by blind belief to strangle thought, By ceaseless penance to deny desire, To quench in prayer and fast all human fire, And wrest from Heaven the blessings that he sought. And there peace found him, and he dwelt alone, And gladly gave his life to God. Behind Lay the long dim arcades of graven stone; Before him lay the desert, burning blind Sometimes with the dread dance of its own sand, That wildly whirled in shadowy columns, fanned By the hot breath of the fierce desert wind. Each day passed by as had passed other days, And days gone by were as the days to come, Save that on some days he was wild with praise, And weak with vigil and with fast on some; And no man saw he for long months and years, But ever did he penance with hot tears, 243 And but for prayer and praise his lips were dumb. Sometimes at first, when spent with watch and prayer, He saw again the Imperial City's towers, Where, in a mist of music and sweet air, Thais and Phryne crowned his cup with flowers-He saw the easeful day, the festal night, The life that was one dream of long delight, One rose-red glow of rapture and fair hours. He heard old well-remembered voices cry, 'Come back to us! Think of the joys you miss; Each moment floats some foregone rapture by, A cup, a crown, a song, a laugh, a kiss! Cast down that crown of thorns, return, and be Once more flower-crowned, love-thrilled, wine-warmed, and see The old sweet life--how good a thing it is!' But his soul answered, 'Nay, I am content; Ye call in vain; the desert shuts me in. Your flowers are sere, your wine with gall is blent, Your sweets have all the sickening taste of sin; Such sin I expiate with ceaseless pain, And world and flesh and devil strive in vain Back from its sanctuary my soul to win. 'Fair are the Imperial City's towers to see? I seek the City with the streets of gold. Beside the lilies God has grown for me Faint are the roses that your fingers hold. Ear hath not heard the music I shall hear, Eye hath not seen the joys that shall appear, Nor heart conceived the things I shall behold.' After long days a stranger halted there, For some far distant monastery bound. The hermit fed and lodged, nor could forbear 244 To tell his guest what rest his soul had found How with the world he long ago had done, How the hard battle had been fought and won, And he found peace, pure, perfect and profound. The stranger answered, 'Thou hast watched an hour, But many hours go to make up our day, And some of these are dark with fateful power, And Satan watches for our souls alway; The spirit may be willing, but indeed The flesh is weak, and so much more the need To pray and watch, my brother, watch and pray.' The Roman bowed his head in mute assent, And, having served the stranger with his best, Bade him God-speed, and down the way he went-Gazed sadly after, but within his breast A pale fire of resentment sprang to flame Was he not holy now, and void of blame, And certain of himself, and pure, and blest? That night a new-born desolation grew Within his heart as he made fast the stone Against the doorway of his hut, and knew How more than ever he was now alone. He was in darkness, but the moon without Made a new tender daylight round about The hut, the palms, the plot with millet sown. Hark!--what was that?--For many months and years He had not heard that faint uncertain noise, Broken, and weak, and indistinct with tears-A voice--a human voice--a woman's voice. 'Oh, let me in,' it wailed, 'before I die! Oh, let me in, for Holy Charity! For see--my life or death is at thy choice!' 245 Unthinking, swift he rolled the stone away: There stood a woman, trembling, shrinking, thin; Her pale hair by the moon's white light looked grey, And grey her hands and grey her withered skin. 'Oh, save me--lest I die among the beasts Who roam, and roar, and hold their fearful feasts! Oh, save me,' she besought him, 'let me in!' Troubled, he answered, 'Nay, I have a vow Never again a woman's face to see!' 'But, ah,' she cried, 'thy vow is broken now, For at this moment thou beholdest me. I cannot journey farther. Help!' she said, 'Or I before the dawning shall be dead, And thou repent to all eternity!' His soul was gentle and compassionate. 'Thou shalt not perish--enter here,' he said; 'My vow is broken, and thy need is great.' She staggered forward to the dry leaf bed, And sank upon it, cold and still and white. 'Perhaps she may not live until the light,' He thought, and lifted up her drooping head, And gave her wine from out a little store Which he had kept untouched since first he came; He rolled the stone again before his door To keep the night air from her wasted frame; And, though his vow was broken, somehow knew That he was doing what was right to do, Yet felt a weight of unacknowledged blame. And many a day he tended her and fed; But ever after that first night's surprise With earnest vigilance he held his head Averted, and downcast he kept his eyes. His vow, though broken once, was still his law; He looked upon her face no more, nor saw 246 Her whom he cared for in such kindly wise. She never spoke to him, nor he to her-That she was sick and sad was all he knew; He never asked her what her past days were, Nor of the future, what she meant to do. So dwelt they, till the full moon's yellow light Flooded the world once more. Then came the night Which all his life had been a prelude to. The stone was moved a little from the door, And near it he was kneeling rapt in prayer Upon the cold uneven earthen floor; The moonbeams passed him by, and rested where The woman slept--her breathing soft and slow, With rhythmic cadence even, restful, low, Stirring the stillness of the cool night air His prayer being ended, as he turned to rest, He chanced to let his eyes fall carelessly Upon the figure that the moon caressed, The woman that his care had not let die. And now no more he turned his face aside, But gazed, and gazed, and still unsatisfied His eager look fed on her, hungrily. On her? On whom? The suppliant he had saved, Thin, hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed had been, With shrunken brow whereon care-lines were graved, With withered arms, dull hair, and fingers lean. 'Has my blind care transformed her so?' he said; For she was gone, and there lay in her stead The loveliest woman he had ever seen. The rags she wore but made her seem more sweet, Since in despite of them she was so fair; The rough brown leaves quite covered up her feet, 247 But left one ivory arm and shoulder bare, The other lay beneath the little head, And over all the moonlit couch was spread The sunlight-coloured wonder of her hair. He could not move, nor turn away his gaze: How long he stood and looked he could not guess. At last she faintly sighed, and in her face Trembled the dawn of coming consciousness; The eyelids quivered, and the red lips stirred, As if they tried to find some sweet lost wo And then her eyelids lifted, and he met Full in his dazzled eyes the glorious light Of eyes that he had struggled to forget Since he had broken from their spells of might-The Eastern eyes that from the painted wall Had lightened down upon him, to enthral Senses and soul with fetters of delight. He knew her now, his love without a name, Who in his dreams had looked on him and smiled, And almost back to his old world of shame His unconsenting manhood had beguiled! There was no world now any more. At last He knew that all--his future, present, past-In her sole self was fused and reconciled. The moments fled as in a dream divine: Fire filled his veins--there beat within his brain The madness that is born of love or wine; And her eyes gleamed--softened and gleamed again, And in those stormy seas he gazed, until Her beauty seemed the whole vast night to fill, And all, save her, seemed valueless and vain. Then, with her eyes still deep in his, she rose 248 And moved towards him, and a wave of bliss Flooded his sense with the wild joy that goes Before a longed-for, almost granted kiss, And slowly she drew nearer to his side-Then, with a smile like mid-June's dawn, she sighed, And turned to him, and laid her hand on his. And at the touch, all he had deemed effaced-All the heart-searing passions of his past-Surged up, and their destroying wave laid waste The ordered garden of his soul. At last The spell of silence broke, and suddenly The man's whole heart found voice in one low cry, As round her perfect head his arms he cast-- And did not clasp her, for his foiled arms crossed Only upon his own tumultuous breast! His wrecked heart, tempest driven, passion tossed, Beat fierce against his own hand on it pressed. As on June fields might fall December frost, In one cold breath he knew that she was lost-Eternally foregone and unpossessed. For even as he clasped she had seemed to melt, And fade into the misty moonlit air; His arms were empty, yet his hand still felt The touch of her hand that had rested there: But she was gone, with all her maddening grace-The solitude and silence, in her place, Like a chill searching wind crept everywhere. Silence--at first. Then suddenly outbroke A little laugh. And then, above, around, A hideous peal of laughter, shout on shout, Re-echoing from sky, and air, and ground; And in his devastated soul had birth A horrid echo of that demon mirth, And with his human voice he swelled its sound. 249 'Tricked, fooled!' he laughed. 'We laugh, the fiends and I, They for their triumph, I to feel my fall! From snares like these is no security, In desert wild or close-built city wall: And since I must be tempted, let me go And brave the old temptations that I know; Not these, that are but phantoms after all-- 'Phantoms, not living women, warm and real, As the fair Roman women were. And yet The phantom only is my soul's ideal, Longed for through all the years and never met Till now; and only now to make hell worse-To fan my fires of infinite remorse With the cold wind of infinite regret. 'Back to the world, the world of love and sin! For since my soul is lost, I claim its price! Prayers are not heard. The God I trusted in Has failed me once--He shall not fail me twice! No more of that wild striving and intense For irrecoverable innocence-No more of useless, vain self-sacrifice! 'Life is too potent and too passionate, Against whose force I all these years have striven In vain, in vain! Our own lives make our Fate; And by our Fate our lives are blindly driven! There is no refuge in the hermit's cell From memories enough to make a hell-Of chances lost that might have made a heaven!' Back to his world he went, and plunged anew Into the old foul life's polluted tide; But ever in his sweetest feast he knew A longing never to be satisfied: 250 This strange wild wickedness, that new mad sin, Might be the frame to find her picture in; And if that failed, some other must be tried. And in the search, soul, body, heart, and brain Were blasted and destroyed, and still his prize, Ever untouched, seemed always just to gain, And just beyond his reach shone Paradise. So followed he, too faithfully, too well, Through death, into the very gate of hell, The love-light of those unforgotten eyes! ~ Edith Nesbit,

861:Eighteen Hundred And Eleven Still the loud death drum, thundering from afar, O'er the vext nations pours the storm of war: To the stern call still Britain bends her ear, Feeds the fierce strife, the' alternate hope and fear; Bravely, though vainly, dares to strive with Fate, And seeks by turns to prop each sinking state. Colossal power with overwhelming force Bears down each fort of Freedom in its course; Prostrate she lies beneath the Despot's sway, While the hushed nations curse him—and obey. Bounteous in vain, with frantic man at strife, Glad Nature pours the means—the joys of life; In vain with orange-blossoms scents the gale, The hills with olives clothes, with corn the vale; Man calls to Famine, nor invokes in vain, Disease and Rapine follow in her train; The tramp of marching hosts disturbs the plough, The sword, not sickle, reaps the harvest now, And where the soldier gleans the scant supply, The helpless peasant but retires to die; No laws his hut from licensed outrage shield, And war's least horror is the' ensanguined field. Fruitful in vain, the matron counts with pride The blooming youths that grace her honoured side; No son returns to press her widowed hand, Her fallen blossoms strew a foreign strand. —Fruitful in vain, she boasts her virgin race, Whom cultured arts adorn and gentlest grace; Defrauded of its homage, Beauty mourns, And the rose withers on its virgin thorns. Frequent, some stream obscure, some uncouth name, By deeds of blood is lifted into fame; Oft o'er the daily page some soft one bends To learn the fate of husband, brothers, friends, Or the spread map with anxious eye explores, Its dotted boundaries and penciled shores, 48 Asks where the spot that wrecked her bliss is found, And learns its name but to detest the sound. And think'st thou, Britain, still to sit at ease, An island queen amidst thy subject seas, While the vext billows, in their distant roar, But soothe thy slumbers, and but kiss thy shore? To sport in wars, while danger keeps aloof, Thy grassy turf unbruised by hostile hoof? So sing thy flatterers;—but, Britain, know, Thou who hast shared the guilt must share the woe. Nor distant is the hour; low murmurs spread, And whispered fears, creating what they dread; Ruin, as with an earthquake shock, is here, There, the heart-witherings of unuttered fear, And that sad death, whence most affection bleeds, Which sickness, only of the soul, precedes. Thy baseless wealth dissolves in air away, Like mists that melt before the morning ray: No more on crowded mart or busy street Friends, meeting friends, with cheerful hurry greet; Sad, on the ground thy princely merchants bend Their altered looks, and evil days portend, And fold their arms, and watch with anxious breast The tempest blackening in the distant West. Yes, thou must droop; thy Midas dream is o'er; The golden tide of Commerce leaves thy shore, Leaves thee to prove the' alternate ills that haunt Enfeebling Luxury and ghastly Want; Leaves thee, perhaps, to visit distant lands, And deal the gifts of Heaven with equal hands. Yet, O my Country, name beloved, revered, By every tie that binds the soul endeared, Whose image to my infant senses came Mixt with Religion's light and Freedom's holy flame! If prayers may not avert, if 'tis thy fate To rank amongst the names that once were great, Not like the dim, cold Crescent shalt thou fade, Thy debt to Science and the Muse unpaid; 49 Thine are the laws surrounding states revere, Thine the full harvest of the mental year, Thine the bright stars in Glory's sky that shine, And arts that make it life to live are thine. If westward streams the light that leaves thy shores, Still from thy lamp the streaming radiance pours. Wide spreads thy race from Ganges to the pole, O'er half the western world thy accents roll: Nations beyond the Apalachian hills Thy hand has planted and thy spirit fills: Soon as their gradual progress shall impart The finer sense of morals and of art, Thy stores of knowledge the new states shall know, And think thy thoughts, and with thy fancy glow; Thy Lockes, thy Paleys shall instruct their youth, Thy leading star direct their search for truth; Beneath the spreading platan's tent-like shade, Or by Missouri's rushing waters laid, “Old father Thames” shall be the poet's theme, Of Hagley's woods the' enamoured virgin dream, And Milton's tones the raptured ear enthrall, Mixt with the roaring of Niagara's fall; In Thomson's glass the' ingenuous youth shall learn A fairer face of Nature to discern; Nor of the bards that swept the British lyre Shall fade one laurel, or one note expire. Then, loved Joanna, to admiring eyes Thy storied groups in scenic pomp shall rise; Their high-souled strains and Shakespear's noble rage Shall with alternate passion shake the stage. Some youthful Basil from thy moral lay With stricter hand his fond desires shall sway; Some Ethwald, as the fleeting shadows pass, Start at his likeness in the mystic glass; The tragic Muse resume her just controul, With pity and with terror purge the soul, While wide o'er transatlantic realms thy name Shall live in light, and gather all its fame. Where wanders Fancy down the lapse of years Shedding o'er imaged woes untimely tears? 50 Fond moody power! as hopes—as fears prevail, She longs, or dreads, to lift the awful veil, On visions of delight now loves to dwell, Now hears the shriek of woe or Freedom's knell: Perhaps, she says, long ages past away, And set in western waves our closing day, Night, Gothic night, again may shade the plains Where Power is seated, and where Science reigns; England, the seat of arts, be only known By the grey ruin and the mouldering stone; That Time may tear the garland from her brow, And Europe sit in dust, as Asia now. Yet then the' ingenuous youth whom Fancy fires With pictured glories of illustrious sires, With duteous zeal their pilgrimage shall take From the Blue Mountains, or Ontario's lake, With fond adoring steps to press the sod By statesmen, sages, poets, heroes trod; On Isis' banks to draw inspiring air, From Runnymede to send the patriot's prayer; In pensive thought, where Cam's slow waters wind, To meet those shades that ruled the realms of mind; In silent halls to sculptured marbles bow, And hang fresh wreaths round Newton's awful brow. Oft shall they seek some peasant's homely shed, Who toils, unconscious of the mighty dead, To ask where Avon's winding waters stray, And thence a knot of wild flowers bear away; Anxious inquire where Clarkson, friend of man, Or all-accomplished Jones his race began; If of the modest mansion aught remains Where Heaven and Nature prompted Cowper's strains; Where Roscoe, to whose patriot breast belong The Roman virtue and the Tuscan song, Led Ceres to the black and barren moor Where Ceres never gained a wreath before: With curious search their pilgrim steps shall rove By many a ruined tower and proud alcove, Shall listen for those strains that soothed of yore Thy rock, stern Skiddaw, and thy fall, Lodore; Feast with Dun Edin's classic brow their sight, 51 And “visit Melross by the pale moonlight.” But who their mingled feelings shall pursue When London's faded glories rise to view? The mighty city, which by every road, In floods of people poured itself abroad; Ungirt by walls, irregularly great, No jealous drawbridge, and no closing gate; Whose merchants (such the state which commerce brings) Sent forth their mandates to dependent kings; Streets, where the turban'd Moslem, bearded Jew, And woolly Afric, met the brown Hindu; Where through each vein spontaneous plenty flowed, Where Wealth enjoyed, and Charity bestowed. Pensive and thoughtful shall the wanderers greet Each splendid square, and still, untrodden street; Or of some crumbling turret, mined by time, The broken stairs with perilous step shall climb, Thence stretch their view the wide horizon round, By scattered hamlets trace its ancient bound, And, choked no more with fleets, fair Thames survey Through reeds and sedge pursue his idle way. With throbbing bosoms shall the wanderers tread The hallowed mansions of the silent dead, Shall enter the long isle and vaulted dome Where Genius and where Valour find a home; Awe-struck, midst chill sepulchral marbles breathe, Where all above is still, as all beneath; Bend at each antique shrine, and frequent turn To clasp with fond delight some sculptured urn, The ponderous mass of Johnson's form to greet, Or breathe the prayer at Howard's sainted feet. Perhaps some Briton, in whose musing mind Those ages live which Time has cast behind, To every spot shall lead his wondering guests On whose known site the beam of glory rests: Here Chatham's eloquence in thunder broke, Here Fox persuaded, or here Garrick spoke; Shall boast how Nelson, fame and death in view, 52 To wonted victory led his ardent crew, In England's name enforced, with loftiest tone, Their duty,—and too well fulfilled his own: How gallant Moore, as ebbing life dissolved, But hoped his country had his fame absolved. Or call up sages whose capacious mind Left in its course a track of light behind; Point where mute crowds on Davy's lips reposed, And Nature's coyest secrets were disclosed; Join with their Franklin, Priestley's injured name, Whom, then, each continent shall proudly claim. Oft shall the strangers turn their eager feet The rich remains of ancient art to greet, The pictured walls with critic eye explore, And Reynolds be what Raphael was before. On spoils from every clime their eyes shall gaze, Egyptian granites and the' Etruscan vase; And when midst fallen London, they survey The stone where Alexander's ashes lay, Shall own with humbled pride the lesson just By Time's slow finger written in the dust. There walks a Spirit o'er the peopled earth, Secret his progress is, unknown his birth; Moody and viewless as the changing wind, No force arrests his foot, no chains can bind; Where'er he turns, the human brute awakes, And, roused to better life, his sordid hut forsakes: He thinks, he reasons, glows with purer fires, Feels finer wants, and burns with new desires: Obedient Nature follows where he leads; The steaming marsh is changed to fruitful meads; The beasts retire from man's asserted reign, And prove his kingdom was not given in vain. Then from its bed is drawn the ponderous ore, Then Commerce pours her gifts on every shore, Then Babel's towers and terraced gardens rise, And pointed obelisks invade the skies; The prince commands, in Tyrian purple drest, 53 And Egypt's virgins weave the linen vest. Then spans the graceful arch the roaring tide, And stricter bounds the cultured fields divide. Then kindles Fancy, then expands the heart, Then blow the flowers of Genius and of Art; Saints, heroes, sages, who the land adorn, Seem rather to descend than to be born; Whilst History, midst the rolls consigned to fame, With pen of adamant inscribes their name. The Genius now forsakes the favoured shore, And hates, capricious, what he loved before; Then empires fall to dust, then arts decay, And wasted realms enfeebled despots sway; Even Nature's changed; without his fostering smile Ophir no gold, no plenty yields the Nile; The thirsty sand absorbs the useless rill, And spotted plagues from putrid fens distill. In desert solitudes then Tadmor sleeps, Stern Marius then o'er fallen Carthage weeps; Then with enthusiast love the pilgrim roves To seek his footsteps in forsaken groves, Explores the fractured arch, the ruined tower, Those limbs disjointed of gigantic power; Still at each step he dreads the adder's sting, The Arab's javelin, or the tiger's spring; With doubtful caution treads the echoing ground, And asks where Troy or Babylon is found. And now the vagrant Power no more detains The vale of Tempe, or Ausonian plains; Northward he throws the animating ray, O'er Celtic nations bursts the mental day: And, as some playful child the mirror turns, Now here now there the moving lustre burns; Now o'er his changeful fancy more prevail Batavia's dykes than Arno's purple vale, And stinted suns, and rivers bound with frost, Than Enna's plains or Baia's viny coast; Venice the Adriatic weds in vain, And Death sits brooding o'er Campania's plain; O'er Baltic shores and through Hercynian groves, 54 Stirring the soul, the mighty impulse moves; Art plies his tools, and Commerce spreads her sail, And wealth is wafted in each shifting gale. The sons of Odin tread on Persian looms, And Odin's daughters breathe distilled perfumes Loud minstrel bards, in Gothic halls, rehearse The Runic rhyme, and “build the lofty verse:” The Muse, whose liquid notes were wont to swell To the soft breathings of the' Æolian shell, Submits, reluctant, to the harsher tone, And scarce believes the altered voice her own. And now, where Cæsar saw with proud disdain The wattled hut and skin of azure stain, Corinthian columns rear their graceful forms, And light varandas brave the wintry storms, While British tongues the fading fame prolong Of Tully's eloquence and Maro's song. Where once Bonduca whirled the scythed car, And the fierce matrons raised the shriek of war, Light forms beneath transparent muslins float, And tutored voices swell the artful note. Light-leaved acacias and the shady plane And spreading cedar grace the woodland reign; While crystal walls the tenderer plants confine, The fragrant orange and the nectared pine; The Syrian grape there hangs her rich festoons, Nor asks for purer air, or brighter noons: Science and Art urge on the useful toil, New mould a climate and create the soil, Subdue the rigour of the northern Bear, O'er polar climes shed aromatic air, On yielding Nature urge their new demands, And ask not gifts but tribute at her hands. London exults:—on London Art bestows Her summer ices and her winter rose; Gems of the East her mural crown adorn, And Plenty at her feet pours forth her horn; While even the exiles her just laws disclaim, People a continent, and build a name: August she sits, and with extended hands Holds forth the book of life to distant lands. 55 But fairest flowers expand but to decay; The worm is in thy core, thy glories pass away; Arts, arms and wealth destroy the fruits they bring; Commerce, like beauty, knows no second spring. Crime walks thy streets, Fraud earns her unblest bread, O'er want and woe thy gorgeous robe is spread, And angel charities in vain oppose: With grandeur's growth the mass of misery grows. For see,—to other climes the Genius soars, He turns from Europe's desolated shores; And lo, even now, midst mountains wrapt in storm, On Andes' heights he shrouds his awful form; On Chimborazo's summits treads sublime, Measuring in lofty thought the march of Time; Sudden he calls:—“'Tis now the hour!” he cries, Spreads his broad hand, and bids the nations rise. La Plata hears amidst her torrents' roar; Potosi hears it, as she digs the ore: Ardent, the Genius fans the noble strife, And pours through feeble souls a higher life, Shouts to the mingled tribes from sea to sea, And swears—Thy world, Columbus, shall be free. ~ Anna Laetitia Barbauld,

862:Gilgamesh spoke to Utanapishtim, the Faraway: "I have been looking at you, but your appearance is not strangeyou are like me! You yourself are not differentyou are like me! My mind was resolved to fight with you, (but instead?) my arm lies useless over you. Tell me, how is it that you stand in the Assembly of the Gods,              and have found life!" Utanapishtim spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "I will reveal to you, Gilgamesh, a thing that is hidden, a secret of the gods I will tell you! Shuruppak, a city that you surely know, situated on the banks of the Euphrates, that city was very old, and there were gods inside it. The hearts of the Great Gods moved them to inflict the Flood. Their Father Anu uttered the oath (of secrecy), Valiant Enlil was their Adviser, Ninurta was their Chamberlain, Ennugi was their Minister of Canals. Ea, the Clever Prince(?), was under oath with them so he repeated their talk to the reed house:   'Reed house, reed house! Wall, wall! O man of Shuruppak, son of Ubartutu: Tear down the house and build a boat! Abandon wealth and seek living beings! Spurn possessions and keep alive living beings! Make all living beings go up into the boat. The boat which you are to build, its dimensions must measure equal to each other: its length must correspond to its width. Roof it over like the Apsu. I understood and spoke to my lord, Ea: 'My lord, thus is the command which you have uttered I will heed and will do it. But what shall I answer the city, the populace, and the                Elders!' Ea spoke, commanding me, his servant: 'You, well then, this is what you must say to them: "It appears that Enlil is rejecting me so I cannot reside in your city (?), nor set foot on Enlil's earth. I will go down to the Apsu to live with my lord, Ea, and upon you he will rain down abundance, a profusion of fowl, myriad(!) fishes. He will bring to you a harvest of wealth, in the morning he will let loaves of bread shower down, and in the evening a rain of wheat!"' Just as dawn began to glow the land assembled around me- the carpenter carried his hatchet, the reed worker carried his (flattening) stone, the men The child carried the pitch, the weak brought whatever else was needed. On the fifth day I laid out her exterior. It was a field in area, its walls were each 10 times 12 cubits in height, the sides of its top were of equal length, 10 times 12 cubits each. I laid out its (interior) structure and drew a picture of it (?). I provided it with six decks, thus dividing it into seven (levels). The inside of it I divided into nine (compartments). I drove plugs (to keep out) water in its middle part. I saw to the punting poles and laid in what was necessary. Three times 3,600 (units) of raw bitumen I poured into the              bitumen kiln, three times 3,600 (units of) pitchinto it, there were three times 3,600 porters of casks who carried (vege-                table) oil, apart from the 3,600 (units of) oil which they consumed (!) and two times 3,600 (units of) oil which the boatman stored                away. I butchered oxen for the meat(!), and day upon day I slaughtered sheep. I gave the workmen(?) ale, beer, oil, and wine, as if it were               river water, so they could make a party like the New Year's Festival. and I set my hand to the oiling(!). The boat was finished by sunset. The launching was very difficult. They had to keep carrying a runway of poles front to back, until two-thirds of it had gone into the water(?). Whatever I had I loaded on it: whatever silver I had 1 loaded on it, whatever gold I had I loaded on it. All the living beings that I had I loaded on it, I had all my kith and kin go up into the boat, all the beasts and animals of the field and the craftsmen I               had go up. Shamash had set a stated time: 'In the morning I will let loaves of bread shower down, and in the evening a rain of wheat! Go inside the boat, seal the entry!' That stated time had arrived. In the morning he let loaves of bread shower down, and in the evening a rain of wheat. I watched the appearance of the weather the weather was frightful to behold! I went into the boat and sealed the entry. For the caulking of the boat, to Puzuramurri, the boatman, I gave the palace together with its contents. Just as dawn began to glow there arose from the horizon a black cloud. Adad rumbled inside of it, before him went Shullat and Hanish, heralds going over mountain and land. Erragal pulled out the mooring poles, forth went Ninurta and made the dikes overflow. The Anunnaki lifted up the torches, setting the land ablaze with their flare. Stunned shock over Adad's deeds overtook the heavens, and turned to blackness all that had been light. The land shattered like a pot. All day long the South Wind blew, blowing fast, submerging the mountain in water, overwhelming the people like an attack. No one could see his fellow, they could not recognize each other in the torrent. The gods were frightened by the Flood, and retreated, ascending to the heaven of Anu. The gods were cowering like dogs, crouching by the outer wall. Ishtar shrieked like a woman in childbirth, the sweet-voiced Mistress of the Gods wailed: 'The olden days have alas turned to clay, because I said evil things in the Assembly of the Gods! How could I say evil things in the Assembly of the Gods, ordering a catastrophe to destroy my people!! No sooner have I given birth to my dear people than they fill the sea like so many fish!' The godsthose of the Anunnakiwere weeping with her, the gods humbly sat weeping, sobbing with grief(?), their lips burning, parched with thirst. Six days and seven nights came the wind and flood, the storm flattening the land. When the seventh day arrived, the storm was pounding, the flood was a warstruggling with itself like a woman            writhing (in labor). The sea calmed, fell still, the whirlwind (and) flood stopped up. I looked around all day longquiet had set in and all the human beings had turned to clay! The terrain was as flat as a roof. I opened a vent and fresh air (daylight!) fell upon the side of                my nose. I fell to my knees and sat weeping, tears streaming down the side of my nose. I looked around for coastlines in the expanse of the sea, and at twelve leagues there emerged a region (of land). On Mt. Nimush the boat lodged firm, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway. One day and a second Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing                no sway. A third day, a fourth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing                no sway. A fifth day, a sixth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing                no sway. When a seventh day arrived I sent forth a dove and released it. The dove went off, but came back to me; no perch was visible so it circled back to me. I sent forth a swallow and released it. The swallow went off, but came back to me; no perch was visible so it circled back to me. I sent forth a raven and released it. The raven went off, and saw the waters slither back. It eats, it scratches, it bobs, but does not circle back to me. Then I sent out everything in all directions and sacrificed                (a sheep). I offered incense in front of the mountain-ziggurat. Seven and seven cult vessels I put in place, and (into the fire) underneath (or: into their bowls) I poured          reeds, cedar, and myrtle. The gods smelled the savor, the gods smelled the sweet savor, and collected like flies over a (sheep) sacrifice. Just then Beletili arrived. She lifted up the large flies (beads) which Anu had made for            his enjoyment(!): 'You gods, as surely as I shall not forget this lapis lazuli            around my neck, may I be mindful of these days, and never forget them! The gods may come to the incense offering, but Enlil may not come to the incense offering, because without considering he brought about the Flood and consigned my people to annihilation.' Just then Enlil arrived. He saw the boat and became furious, he was filled with rage at the Igigi gods: 'Where did a living being escape? No man was to survive the annihilation!' Ninurta spoke to Valiant Enlil, saying: 'Who else but Ea could devise such a thing? It is Ea who knows every machination!' La spoke to Valiant Enlil, saying: 'It is yours, O Valiant One, who is the Sage of the Gods. How, how could you bring about a Flood without consideration Charge the violation to the violator, charge the offense to the offender, but be compassionate lest (mankind) be cut off, be patient lest they be killed. Instead of your bringing on the Flood, would that a lion had appeared to diminish the people! Instead of your bringing on the Flood, would that a wolf had appeared to diminish the people! Instead of your bringing on the Flood, would that famine had occurred to slay the land! Instead of your bringing on the Flood, would that (Pestilent) Erra had appeared to ravage the land! It was not I who revealed the secret of the Great Gods, I (only) made a dream appear to Atrahasis, and (thus) he          heard the secret of the gods. Now then! The deliberation should be about him!' Enlil went up inside the boat and, grasping my hand, made me go up. He had my wife go up and kneel by my side. He touched our forehead and, standing between us, he              blessed us: 'Previously Utanapishtim was a human being. But now let Utanapishtim and his wife become like us,                the gods! Let Utanapishtim reside far away, at the Mouth of the Rivers.' They took us far away and settled us at the Mouth of the Rivers." "Now then, who will convene the gods on your behalf, that you may find the life that you are seeking! Wait! You must not lie down for six days and seven nights." soon as he sat down (with his head) between his legs sleep, like a fog, blew upon him. Utanapishtim said to his wife: "Look there! The man, the youth who wanted (eternal) life! Sleep, like a fog, blew over him." his wife said to Utanapishtim the Faraway: "Touch him, let the man awaken. Let him return safely by the way he came. Let him return to his land by the gate through which he left." Utanapishtim said to his wife: "Mankind is deceptive, and will deceive you. Come, bake leaves for him and keep setting them by his head and draw on the wall each day that he lay down." She baked his leaves and placed them by his head and marked on the wall the day that he lay down. The first loaf was dessicated, the second stale, the third moist(?), the fourth turned white,                 its, the fifth sprouted gray (mold), the sixth is still fresh. the seventhsuddenly he touched him and the man awoke. Gilgamesh said to Utanapishtim: "The very moment sleep was pouring over me you touched me and alerted me!" Utanapishtim spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "Look over here, Gilgamesh, count your loaves! You should be aware of what is marked on the wall! Your first loaf is dessicated, the second stale, the third moist, your fourth turned white,                  its the fifth sprouted gray (mold), the sixth is still fresh. The seventhsuddenly he touched him and the man awoke. Gilgamesh said to Utanapishtim: "The very moment sleep was pouring over me you touched me and alerted me!" Utanapishtim spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "Look over here, Gilgamesh, count your leaves! You should be aware of what is marked on the wall! Your first loaf is dessicated, the second stale, the third moist, your fourth turned white,                  its the fifth sprouted gray (mold), the sixth is still fresh. The seventhat that instant you awoke!" Gilgamesh said to Utanapishtim the Faraway: "O woe! What shall I do, Utanapishtim, where shall I go! The Snatcher has taken hold of my flesh, in my bedroom Death dwells, and wherever I set foot there too is Death!"        Home Empty-Handed Utanapishtim said to Urshanabi, the ferryman: "May the harbor reject you, may the ferry landing reject you! May you who used to walk its shores be denied its shores! The man in front of whom you walk, matted hair chains                  his body, animal skins have ruined his beautiful skin. Take him away, Urshanabi, bring him to the washing place. Let him wash his matted hair in water like ellu. Let him cast away his animal skin and have the sea carry it off, let his body be moistened with fine oil, let the wrap around his head be made new, let him wear royal robes worthy of him! Until he goes off to his city, until he sets off on his way, let his royal robe not become spotted, let it be perfectly new!" Urshanabi took him away and brought him to the washing place. He washed his matted hair with water like ellu. He cast off his animal skin and the sea carried it oh. He moistened his body with fine oil, and made a new wrap for his head. He put on a royal robe worthy of him. Until he went away to his city, until he set off on his way, his royal robe remained unspotted, it was perfectly clean. Gilgamesh and Urshanabi bearded the boat, they cast off the magillu-boat, and sailed away. The wife of Utanapishtim the Faraway said to him: "Gilgamesh came here exhausted and worn out. What can you give him so that he can return to his land (with                  honor) !" Then Gilgamesh raised a punting pole and drew the boat to shore. Utanapishtim spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "Gilgamesh, you came here exhausted and worn out. What can I give you so you can return to your land? I will disclose to you a thing that is hidden, Gilgamesh, a I will tell you. There is a plant like a boxthorn, whose thorns will prick your hand like a rose. If your hands reach that plant you will become a young                 man again." Hearing this, Gilgamesh opened a conduit(!) (to the Apsu) and attached heavy stones to his feet. They dragged him down, to the Apsu they pulled him. He took the plant, though it pricked his hand, and cut the heavy stones from his feet, letting the waves(?) throw him onto its shores. Gilgamesh spoke to Urshanabi, the ferryman, saying: "Urshanabi, this plant is a plant against decay(!) by which a man can attain his survival(!). I will bring it to Uruk-Haven, and have an old man eat the plant to test it. The plant's name is 'The Old Man Becomes a Young Man.'" Then I will eat it and return to the condition of my youth." At twenty leagues they broke for some food, at thirty leagues they stopped for the night. Seeing a spring and how cool its waters were, Gilgamesh went down and was bathing in the water. A snake smelled the fragrance of the plant, silently came up and carried off the plant. While going back it sloughed off its casing.' At that point Gilgamesh sat down, weeping, his tears streaming over the side of his nose. "Counsel me, O ferryman Urshanabi! For whom have my arms labored, Urshanabi! For whom has my heart's blood roiled! I have not secured any good deed for myself, but done a good deed for the 'lion of the ground'!" Now the high waters are coursing twenty leagues distant,' as I was opening the conduit(?) I turned my equipment over                into it (!). What can I find (to serve) as a marker(?) for me! I will turn back (from the journey by sea) and leave the boat by                the shore!" At twenty leagues they broke for some food, at thirty leagues they stopped for the night. They arrived in Uruk-Haven. Gilgamesh said to Urshanabi, the ferryman: "Go up, Urshanabi, onto the wall of Uruk and walk around. Examine its foundation, inspect its brickwork thoroughly is not (even the core of) the brick structure of kiln-fired brick, and did not the Seven Sages themselves lay out its plan! One league city, one league palm gardens, one league lowlands, the open area(?) of the Ishtar Temple, three leagues and the open area(?) of Uruk it encloses. ~ Anonymous, The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet XI The Story of the Flood ,

863:First Anniversary Like the vain curlings of the watery maze, Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise, So Man, declining always, disappears In the weak circles of increasing years; And his short tumults of themselves compose, While flowing Time above his head does close. Cromwell alone with greater vigour runs, (Sun-like) the stages of succeeding suns: And still the day which he doth next restore, Is the just wonder of the day before. Cromwell alone doth with new lustre spring, And shines the jewel of the yearly ring. 'Tis he the force of scattered time contracts, And in one year the work of ages acts: While heavy monarchs make a wide return, Longer, and more malignant than Saturn: And though they all Platonic years should reign, In the same posture would be found again. Their earthy projects under ground they lay, More slow and brittle than the China clay: Well may they strive to leave them to their son, For one thing never was by one king done. Yet some more active for a frontier town, Taken by proxy, beg a false renown; Another triumphs at the public cost, And will have won, if he no more have lost; They fight by others, but in person wrong, And only are against their subjects strong; Their other wars seem but a feigned contèst, This common enemy is still oppressed; If conquerors, on them they turn their might; If conquered, on them they wreak their spite: They neither build the temple in their days, Nor matter for succeeding founders raise; Nor sacred prophecies consult within, Much less themself to pèfect them begin; No other care they bear of things above, 57 But with astrologers divine of Jove To know how long their planet yet reprieves From the deservéd fate their guilty lives: Thus (image-like) an useless time they tell, And with vain sceptre strike the hourly bell, Nor more contribute to the state of things, Than wooden heads unto the viol's strings. While indefatigable Cromwell hies, And cuts his way still nearer to the skies, Learning a music in the region clear, To tune this lower to that higher sphere. So when Amphion did the lute command, Which the god gave him, with his gentle hand, The rougher stones, unto his measures hewed, Danced up in order from the quarries rude; This took a lower, that an higher place, As he the treble altered, or the bass: No note he struck, but a new stone was laid, And the great work ascended while he played. The listening structures he with wonder eyed, And still new stops to various time applied: Now through the strings a martial rage he throws, And joining straight the Theban tower arose; Then as he strokes them with a touch more sweet, The flocking marbles in a palace meet; But for the most the graver notes did try, Therefore the temples reared their columns high: Thus, ere he ceased, his sacred lute creates Th' harmonious city of the seven gates. Such was that wondrous order and consent, When Cromwell tuned the ruling Instrument, While tedious statesmen many years did hack, Framing a liberty that still went back, Whose numerous gorge could swallow in an hour That island, which the sea cannot devour: Then our Amphion issued out and sings, And once he struck, and twice, the powerful strings. 58 The Commonwealth then first together came, And each one entered in the willing frame; All other matter yields, and may be ruled; But who the minds of stubborn men can build? No quarry bears a stone so hardly wrought, Nor with such labour from its centre brought; None to be sunk in the foundation bends, Each in the house the highest place contends, And each the hand that lays him will direct, And some fall back upon the architect; Yet all composed by his attractive song, Into the animated city throng. The Commonwealth does through their centres all Draw the circumference of the public wall; The crossest spirits here do take their part, Fastening the contignation which they thwart; And they, whose nature leads them to divide, Uphold this one, and that the other side; But the most equal still sustain the height, And they as pillars keep the work upright, While the resistance of opposèd minds, The fabric (as with arches) stronger binds, Which on the basis of a senate free, Knit by the roof's protecting weight, agree. When for his foot he thus a place had found, He hurls e'er since the world about him round, And in his several aspects, like a star, Here shines in peace, and thither shoots in war, While by his beams observing princes steer, And wisely court the influence they fear. O would they rather by his pattern won Kiss the approaching, not yet angry Son; And in their numbered footsteps humbly tread The path where holy oracles do lead; How might they under such a captain raise The great designs kept for the latter days! But mad with reason (so miscalled) of state They know them not, and what they know not, hate. Hence still they sing hosanna to the whore, And her, whom they should massacre, adore: 59 But Indians, whom they would convert, subdue; Nor teach, but traffic with, or burn the Jew. Unhappy princes, ignorantly bred, By malice some, by error more misled, If gracious heaven to my life give length, Leisure to time, and to my weaknes strength, Then shall I once with graver accents shake Your regal sloth, and your long slumbers wake: Like the shrill huntsman that prevents the east, Winding his horn to kings that chase the beast. Till then my muse shall hollo far behind Angelic Cromwell who outwings the wind, And in dark nights, and in cold days alone Pursues the monster through every throne: Which shrinking to her Roman den impure, Gnashes her gory teeth; nor there secure. Hence oft I think if in some happy hour High grace should meet in one with highest power, And then a seasonable people still Should bend to his, as he to heaven's will, What we might hope, what wonderful effect From such a wished conjuncture might reflect. Sure, the mysterious work, where none withstand, Would forthwith finish under such a hand: Foreshortened time its useless course would stay, And soon precipitate the latest day. But a thick cloud about that morning lies, And intercepts the beams of mortal eyes, That 'tis the most which we determine can, If these the times, then this must be the man. And well he therefore does, and well has guessed, Who in his age has always forward pressed: And knowing not where heaven's choice may light, Girds yet his sword, and ready stand to fight; But men, alas, as if they nothing cared, Look on, all unconcerned, or unprepared; And stars still fall, and still the dragon's tail Swinges the volumes of its horrid flail. For the great justice that did first suspend 60 The world by sin, does by the same extend. Hence that blest day still counterposèd wastes, The ill delaying what the elected hastes; Hence landing nature to new seas is tossed, And good designs still with their authors lost. And thou, great Cromwell, for whose happy birth A mould was chosen out of better earth; Whose saint-like mother we did lately see Live out an age, long as a pedigree; That she might seem (could we the Fall dispute), T' have smelled the blossom, and not eat the fruit; Though none does of more lasting parents grow, Yet never any did them honour so, Though thou thine heart from evil still unstained, And always hast thy tongue from fraud refrained; Thou, who so oft through storms of thundering lead Hast born securely thine undaunted head, Thy breast through poniarding conspiracies, Drawn from the sheath of lying prophecies; Thee proof behond all other force or skill, Our sins endanger, and shall one day kill. How near they failed, and in thy sudden fall At once assayed to overturn us all. Our brutish fury struggling to be free, Hurried thy horses while they hurried thee, When thou hadst almost quit thy mortal cares, And soiled in dust thy crown of silver hairs. Let this one sorrow interweave among The other glories of our yearly song. Like skilful looms, which through the costly thread Of purling ore, a shining wave do shed: So shall the tears we on past grief employ, Still as they trickle, glitter in our joy. So with more modesty we may be true, And speak, as of the dead, the praises due: While impious men deceived with pleasure short, On their own hopes shall find the fall retort. But the poor beasts, wanting their noble guide, 61 (What could they more?) shrunk guiltily aside. First wingèd fear transports them far away, And leaden sorrow then their flight did stay. See how they each his towering crest abate, And the green grass, and their known mangers hate, Nor through wide nostrils snuff the wanton air, Nor their round hoofs, or curlèd manes compare; With wandering eyes, and restless ears they stood, And with shrill neighings asked him of the wood. Thou, Cromwell, falling, not a stupid tree, Or rock so savage, but it mourned for thee: And all about was heard a panic groan, As if that Nature's self were overthrown. It seemed the earth did from the centre tear; It seemed the sun was fall'n out of the sphere: Justice obstructed lay, and reason fooled; Courage disheartened, and religion cooled. A dismal silence through the palace went, And then loud shrieks the vaulted marbles rent, Such as the dying chorus sings by turns, And to deaf seas, and ruthless tempests mourns, When now they sink, and now the plundering streams Break up each deck, and rip the oaken seams. But thee triumphant hence the fiery car, And fiery steeds had borne out of the war, From the low world, and thankless men above, Unto the kingdom blest of peace and love: We only mourned ourselves, in thine ascent, Whom thou hadst left beneath with mantle rent. For all delight of life thou then didst lose, When to command, thou didst thyself dispose; Resigning up thy privacy so dear, To turn the headstrong people's charioteer; For to be Cromwell was a greater thing, Then ought below, or yet above a king: Therefore thou rather didst thyself depress, Yielding to rule, because it made thee less. For neither didst thou from the first apply 62 Thy sober spirit unto things too high, But in thine own fields exercised'st long, An healthful mind within a body strong; Till at the seventh time thou in the skies, As a small cloud, like a man's hand, didst rise; Then did thick mists and winds the air deform, And down at last thou poured'st the fertile storm, Which to the thirsty land did plenty bring, But, though forewarned, o'ertook and wet the King. What since he did, an higher force him pushed Still from behind, and yet before him rushed, Though undiscerned among the tumult blind, Who think those high decrees by man designed. 'Twas heaven would not that his power should cease, But walk still middle betwixt war and peace: Choosing each stone, and poising every weight, Trying the measures of the breadth and height; Here pulling down, and there erecting new, Founding a firm state by proportions true. When Gideon so did from the war retreat, Yet by the conquest of two kings grown great, He on the peace extends a warlike power, And Israel silent saw him raze the tower; And how he Succorth's Elders durst suppress, With thorns and briars of the wilderness. No king might ever such a force have done; Yet would not he be Lord, nor yet his son. Thou with the same strength, and an heart as plain, Didst (like thine olive) still refuse to reign, Though why should others all thy labour spoil, And brambles be anointed with thine oil, Whose climbing flame, without a timely stop, Had quickly levelled every cedar's top? Therefore first growing to thyself a law, Th' ambitious shrubs thou in just time didst awe. So have I seen at sea, when whirling winds, Hurry the bark, but more the seamen's minds, Who with mistaken course salute the sand, 63 And threatening rocks misapprehend for land, While baleful Tritons to the shipwreck guide, And corposants along the tackling slide, The passengers all wearied out before, Giddy, and wishing for the fatal shore, Some lusty mate, who with more careful eye Counted the hours, and every star did spy, The help does from the artless steersman strain, And doubles back unto the safer main. What though a while they grumble discontent, Saving himself, he does their loss prevent. 'Tis not a freedom, that where all command; Nor tyranny, where one does them withstand: But who of both the bounder knows to lay Him as their father must the state obey. Thou, and thine house (like Noah's eight) did rest, Left by the wars' flood on the mountains' crest: And the large vale lay subject to thy will Which thou but as an husbandman wouldst till: And only didst for others plant the vine Of liberty, not drunken with its wine. That sober liberty which men may have, That they enjoy, but more they vainly crave: And such as to their parents' tents do press, May show their own, not see his nakedness. Yet such a Chammish issue still does rage, The shame and plague both of the land and age, Who watched thy halting, and thy fall deride, Rejoicing when thy foot had slipped aside, That their new king might the fifth sceptre shake, And make the world, by his example, quake: Whose frantic army should they want for men Might muster heresies, so one were ten. What thy misfortune, they the spirit call, And their religion only is to fall. Oh Mahomet! now couldst thou rise again, Thy falling-sickness should have made thee reign, While Feake and Simpson would in many a tome, 64 Have writ the comments of thy sacred foam: For soon thou mightst have passed among their rant Were't but for thine unmovèd tulipant; As thou must needs have owned them of thy band For prophecies fit to be Alcoraned. Accursèd locusts, whom your king does spit Out of the centre of the unbottomed pit; Wanderers, adulterers, liars, Munster's rest, Sorcerers, athiests, jesuits possessed; You who the scriptures and the laws deface With the same liberty as points and lace; Oh race most hypocritically strict! Bent to reduce us to the ancient Pict; Well may you act the Adam and the Eve; Ay, and the serpent too that did deceive. But the great captain, now the danger's o'er, Makes you for his sake tremble one fit more; And, to your spite, returning yet alive Does with himself all that is good revive. So when first man did through the morning new See the bright sun his shining race pursue, All day he followed with unwearied sight, Pleased with that other world of moving light; But thought him when he missed his setting beams, Sunk in the hills, or plunged below the streams. While dismal blacks hung round the universe, And stars (like tapers) burned upon his hearse: And owls and ravens with their screeching noise Did make the funerals sadder by their joys. His weeping eyes the doleful vigils keep, Not knowing yet the night was made for sleep; Still to the west, where he him lost, he turned, And with such accents as despairing mourned: `Why did mine eyes once see so bright a ray; Or why day last no longer than a day?' When straight the sun behind him he descried, Smiling serenely from the further side. So while our star that gives us light and heat, 65 Seemed now a long and gloomy night to threat, Up from the other world his flame he darts, And princes (shining through their windows) starts, Who their suspected counsellors refuse, And credulous ambassadors accuse. `Is this', saith one, `the nation that we read Spent with both wars, under a captain dead, Yet rig a navy while we dress us late, And ere we dine, raze and rebuild their state? What oaken forests, and what golden mines! What mints of men, what union of designs! (Unless their ships, do, as their fowl proceed Of shedding leaves, that with their ocean breed). Theirs are not ships, but rather arks of war And beakèd promontories sailed from far; Of floating islands a new hatchèd nest; A fleet of worlds, of other worlds in quest; An hideous shoal of wood-leviathans, Armed with three tier of brazen hurricanes, That through the centre shoot their thundering side And sink the earth that does at anchor ride. What refuge to escape them can be found, Whose watery leaguers all the world surround? Needs must we all their tributaries be, Whose navies hold the sluices of the sea. The ocean is the fountain of command, But that once took, we captives are on land. And those that have the waters for their share, Can quickly leave us neither earth nor air. Yet if through these our fears could find a pass, Through double oak, and lined with treble brass, That one man still, although but named, alarms More than all men, all navies, and all arms. Him, in the day, him, in late night I dread, And still his sword seems hanging o'er my head. The nation had been ours, but his one soul Moves the great bulk, and animates the whole. He secrecy with number hath enchased, Courage with age, maturity with haste: The valiant's terror, riddle of the wise, And still his falchion all our knots unties. 66 Where did he learn those arts that cost us dear? Where below earth, or where above the sphere? He seems a king by long succession born, And yet the same to be a king does scorn. Abroad a king he seems, and something more, At home a subject on the equal floor. O could I once him with our title see, So should I hope that he might die as we. But let them write is praise that love him best, It grieves me sore to have thus much confessed.' Pardon, great Prince, if thus their fear of spite More than our love and duty do thee right. I yield, nor further will the prize contend, So that we both alike may miss our end: While thou thy venerable head dost raise As far above their malice as my praise, And as the Angel of our commonweal, Troubling the waters, yearly mak'st them heal. ~ Andrew Marvell,

864:The First Anniversary Of The Government Under O.C. Like the vain Curlings of the Watry maze, Which in smooth streams a sinking Weight does raise; So Man, declining alwayes, disappears. In the Weak Circles of increasing Years; And his short Tumults of themselves Compose, While flowing Time above his Head does close. Cromwell alone with greater Vigour runs, (Sun-like) the Stages of succeeding Suns: And still the Day which he doth next restore, Is the just Wonder of the Day before. Cromwell alone doth with new Lustre spring, And shines the Jewel of the yearly Ring. 'Tis he the force of scatter'd Time contracts, And in one Year the Work of Ages acts: While heavy Monarchs make a wide Return, Longer, and more Malignant then Saturn: And though they all Platonique years should raign, In the same Posture would be found again. Their earthly Projects under ground they lay, More slow and brittle then the China clay: Well may they strive to leave them to their Son, For one Thing never was by one King don. Yet some more active for a Frontier Town Took in by Proxie, beggs a false Renown; Another triumphs at the publick Cost, And will have Wonn, if he no more have Lost; They fight by Others, but in Person wrong, And only are against their Subjects strong; Their other Wars seem but a feign'd contest, This Common Enemy is still opprest; If Conquerors, on them they turn their might; If Conquered, on them they wreak their Spight: They neither build the Temple in their dayes, Nor Matter for succeeding Founders raise; Nor Sacred Prophecies consult within, Much less themselves to perfect them begin, No other care they bear of things above, But with Astrologers divine, and Jove, To know how long their Planet yet Reprives 137 From the deserved Fate their guilty lives: Thus (Image-like) and useless time they tell, And with vain Scepter strike the hourly Bell; Nor more contribute to the state of Things, Then wooden Heads unto the Viols strings, While indefatigable Cromwell hyes, And cuts his way still nearer to the Skyes, Learning a Musique in the Region clear, To tune this lower to that higher Sphere. So when Amphion did the Lute command, Which the God gave him, with his gentle hand, The rougher Stones, unto his Measures hew'd, Dans'd up in order from the Quarreys rude; This took a Lower, that an Higher place, As he the Treble alter'd, or the Base: No Note he struck, but a new Story lay'd, And the great Work ascended while he play'd. The listning Structures he with Wonder ey'd, And still new Stopps to various Time apply'd: Now through the Strings a Martial rage he throws, And joyng streight the Theban Tow'r arose; Then as he strokes them with a Touch more sweet, The flocking Marbles in a Palace meet; But, for he most the graver Notes did try, Therefore the Temples rear'd their Columns high: Thus, ere he ceas'd, his sacred Lute creates Th'harmonious City of the seven Gates. Such was that wondrous Order and Consent, When Cromwell tun'd the ruling Instrument; While tedious Statesmen many years did hack, Framing a Liberty that still went back; Whose num'rous Gorge could swallow in an hour That Island, which the Sea cannot devour: Then our Amphion issues out and sings, And once he struck, and twice, the pow'rful Strings. The Commonwealth then first together came, And each one enter'd in the willing Frame; All other Matter yields, and may be rul'd; But who the Minds of stubborn Men can build? No Quarry bears a Stone so hardly wrought, Nor with such labour from its Center brought; None to be sunk in the Foundation bends, 138 Each in the House the highest Place contends, And each the Hand that lays him will direct, And some fall back upon the Architect; Yet all compos'd by his attractive Song, Into the Animated City throng. The Common-wealth does through their Centers all Draw the Circumf'rence of the publique Wall; The crossest Spirits here do take their part, Fast'ning the Contignation which they thwart; And they, whose Nature leads them to divide, Uphold, this one, and that the other Side; But the most Equal still sustein the Height, And they as Pillars keep the Work upright; While the resistance of opposed Minds, The Fabrick as with Arches stronger binds, Which on the Basis of a Senate free, Knit by the Roofs Protecting weight agree. When for his foot he thus a place had found, He hurles e'r since the World about him round, And in his sev'ral Aspects, like a Star, Here shines in Peace, and thither shoots a War. While by his Beams observing Princes steer, And wisely court the Influence they fear, O would they rather by his Pattern won. Kiss the approaching, nor yet angry Son; And in their numbred Footsteps humbly tread The path where holy Oracles do lead; How might they under such a Captain raise The great Designs kept for the latter Dayes! But mad with reason, so miscall'd, of State They know them not, and what they know not, hate Hence still they sing Hosanna to the Whore, And her whom they should Massacre adore: But Indians whom they should convert, subdue; Nor teach, but traffique with, or burn the Jew. Unhappy Princes, ignorantly bred, By Malice some, by Errour more misled; If gracious Heaven to my Life give length, Leisure to Times, and to my Weakness Strength, Then shall I once with graver Accents shake Your Regal sloth, and your long Slumbers wake: Like the shrill Huntsman that prevents the East, 139 Winding his Horn to Kings that chase the Beast. Till then my Muse shall hollow far behind Angelique Cromwell who outwings the wind; And in dark Nights, and in cold Dayes alone Pursues the Monster thorough every Throne: Which shrinking to her Roman Den impure, Gnashes her Goary teeth; nor there secure. Hence oft I think, if in some happy Hour High Grace should meet in one with highest Pow'r, And then a seasonable People still Should bend to his, as he to Heavens will, What we might hope, what wonderful Effect From such a wish'd Conjuncture might reflect. Sure, the mysterious Work, where none withstand, Would forthwith finish under such a Hand: Fore-shortned Time its useless Course would stay, And soon precipitate the latest Day. But a thick Cloud about that Morning lyes, And intercepts the Beams of Mortal eyes, That 'tis the most which we deteremine can, If these the Times, then this must be the Man. And well he therefore does, and well has guest, Who in his Age has always forward prest: And knowing not where Heavens choice may light, Girds yet his Sword, and ready stands to fight; But Men alas, as if they nothing car'd, Look on, all unconcern'd, or unprepar'd; And Stars still fall, and still the Dragons Tail Swinges the Volumes of its horrid Flail. For the great Justice that did first suspend The World by Sin, does by the same extend. Hence that blest Day still counterpoysed wastes, The ill delaying, what th'Elected hastes; Hence landing Nature to new Seas it tost, And good Designes still with their Authors lost. And thou, great Cromwell, for whose happy birth A Mold was chosen out of better Earth; Whose Saint-like Mother we did lately see Live out an Age, long as a Pedigree; That she might seem, could we the Fall dispute, T'have smelt the Blossome, and not eat the Fruit; Though none does of more lasting Parents grow, 140 But never any did them Honor so; Though thou thine Heart from Evil still unstain'd, And always hast thy Tongue from fraud refrain'd, Thou, who so oft through Storms of thundring Lead Hast born securely thine undaunted Head, Thy Brest through ponyarding Conspiracies, Drawn from the Sheath of lying Prophecies; Thee proof beyond all other Force or Skill, Our Sins endanger, and shall one day kill. How near they fail'd, and in thy sudden Fall At once assay'd to overturn us all. Our brutish fury strugling to be Free, Hurry'd thy Horses while they hurry'd thee. When thou hadst almost quit thy Mortal cares, And soyl'd in Dust thy Crown of silver Hairs. Let this one Sorrow interweave among The other Glories of our yearly Song. Like skilful Looms which through the costly threed Of purling Ore, a shining wave do shed: So shall the Tears we on past Grief employ, Still as they trickle, glitter in our Joy. So with more Modesty we may be True, And speak as of the Dead the Praises due: While impious Men deceiv'd with pleasure short, On their own Hopes shall find the Fall retort. But the poor Beasts wanting their noble Guide, What could they move? shrunk guiltily aside. First winged Fear transports them far away, And leaden Sorrow then their flight did stay. See how they each his towring Crest abate, And the green Grass, and their known Mangers hate, Nor through wide Nostrils snuffe the wanton air, Nor their round Hoofs, or curled Mane'scompare; With wandring Eyes, and restless Ears theystood, And with shrill Neighings ask'd him of the Wood. Thou Cromwell falling, not a stupid Tree, Or Rock so savage, but it mourn'd for thee: And all about was heard a Panique groan, As if that Natures self were overthrown. It seem'd the Earth did from the Center tear; It seem'd the Sun was faln out of the Sphere: Justice obstructed lay, and Reason fool'd; 141 Courage disheartned, and Religion cool'd. A dismal Silence through the Palace went, And then loud Shreeks the vaulted Marbles rent. Such as the dying Chorus sings by turns, And to deaf Seas, and ruthless Tempests mourns, When now they sink, and now the plundring Streams Break up each Deck, and rip the Oaken seams. But thee triumphant hence the firy Carr, And firy Steeds had born out of the Warr, From the low World, and thankless Men above, Unto the Kingdom blest of Peace and Love: We only mourn'd our selves, in thine Ascent, Whom thou hadst lest beneath with Mantle rent. For all delight of Life thou then didst lose, When to Command, thou didst thy self Depose; Resigning up thy Privacy so dear, To turn the headstrong Peoples Charioteer; For to be Cromwell was a greater thing, Then ought below, or yet above a King: Therefore thou rather didst thy Self depress, Yielding to Rule, because it made thee Less. For, neither didst thou from the first apply Thy sober Spirit unto things too High, But in thine own Fields exercisedst long, An Healthful Mind within a Body strong; Till at the Seventh time thou in the Skyes, As a small Cloud, like a Mans hand didst rise; Then did thick Mists and Winds the air deform, And down at last thou pow'rdst the fertile Storm; Which to the thirsty Land did plenty bring, But though forewarn'd, o'r-took and wet the King. What since he did, an higher Force him push'd Still from behind, and it before him rush'd, Though undiscern'd among the tumult blind, Who think those high Decrees by Man design'd. 'Twas Heav'n would not that his Pow'r should cease, But walk still middle betwixt War and Peace; Choosing each Stone, and poysing every weight, Trying the Measures of the Bredth and Height; Here pulling down, and there erecting New, Founding a firm State by Proportions true. When Gideon so did from the War retreat, 142 Yet by Conquest of two Kings grown great, He on the Peace extends a Warlike power, And Is'rel silent saw him rase the Tow'r; And how he Succoths Elders durst suppress, With Thorns and Briars of the Wilderness. No King might ever such a Force have done; Yet would not he be Lord, nor yet his Son. Thou with the same strength, and an Heart as plain, Didst (like thine Olive) still refuse to Reign; Though why should others all thy Labor spoil, And Brambles be anointed with thine Oyl, Whose climbing Flame, without a timely stop, Had quickly Levell'd every Cedar's top. Therefore first growing to thy self a Law, Th'ambitious Shrubs thou in just time didst aw. So have I seen at Sea, when whirling Winds, Hurry the Bark, but more the Seamens minds, Who with mistaken Course salute the Sand, And threat'ning Rocks misapprehend for Land; While baleful Tritons to the shipwrack guide. And Corposants along the Tacklings slide. The Passengers all wearyed out before, Giddy, and wishing for the fatal Shore; Some lusty Mate, who with more careful Eye Counted the Hours, and ev'ry Star did spy, The Helm does from the artless Steersman strain, And doubles back unto the safer Main. What though a while they grumble discontent, Saving himself he does their loss prevent. 'Tis not a Freedome, that where All command; Nor Tyranny, where One does them withstand: But who of both the Bounders knows to lay Him as their Father must the State obey. Thou, and thine House, like Noah's Eight did rest, Left by the Wars Flood on the Mountains crest: And the large Vale lay subject to thy Will, Which thou but as an Husbandman would Till: And only didst for others plant the Vine Of Liberty, not drunken with its Wine. That sober Liberty which men may have, That they enjoy, but more they vainly crave: And such as to their Parents Tents do press, 143 May shew their own, not see his Nakedness. Yet such a Chammish issue still does rage, The Shame and Plague both of the Land and Age, Who watch'd thy halting, and thy Fall deride, Rejoycing when thy Foot had slipt aside; that their new King might the fifth Scepter shake, And make the World, by his Example, Quake: Whose frantique Army should they want for Men Might muster Heresies, so one were ten. What thy Misfortune, they the Spirit call, And their Religion only is to Fall. Oh Mahomet! now couldst thou rise again, Thy Falling-sickness should have made thee Reign, While Feake and Simpson would in many a Tome, Have writ the Comments of thy sacred Foame: For soon thou mightst have past among their Rant Wer't but for thine unmoved Tulipant; As thou must needs have own'd them of thy band For prophecies fit to be Alcorand. Accursed Locusts, whom your King does spit Out of the Center of th'unbottom'd Pit; Wand'rers, Adult'rers, Lyers, Munser's rest, Sorcerers, Atheists, Jesuites, Possest; You who the Scriptures and the Laws deface With the same liberty as Points and Lace; Oh Race most hypocritically strict! Bent to reduce us to the ancient Pict; Well may you act the Adam and the Eve; Ay, and the Serpent too that did deceive. But the great Captain, now the danger's ore, Makes you for his sake Tremble one fit more; And, to your spight, returning yet alive Does with himself all that is good revive. So when first Man did through the Morning new See the bright Sun his shining Race pursue, All day he follow'd with unwearied sight, Pleas'd with that other World of moving Light; But thought him when he miss'd his setting beams, Sunk in the Hills, or plung'd below the Streams. While dismal blacks hung round the Universe, And Stars (like Tapers) burn'd upon his Herse: And Owls and Ravens with their screeching noyse 144 Did make the Fun'rals sadder by their Joyes. His weeping Eyes the doleful Vigils keep, Not knowing yet the Night was made for sleep: Still to the West, where he him lost, he turn'd, And with such accents, as Despairing, mourn'd: Why did mine Eyes once see so bright a Ray; Or why Day last no longer than a Day? When streight the Sun behind him he descry'd, Smiling serenely from the further side. So while our Star that gives us Light and Heat, Seem'd now a long and gloomy Night to threat, Up from the other World his Flame he darts, And Princes shining through their windows starts; Who their suspected Counsellors refuse, And credulous Ambassadors accuse. "Is this, saith one, the Nation that we read "Spent with both Wars, under a Captain dead? "Yet rig a Navy while we dress us late; "And ere we Dine, rase and rebuild our State. "What Oaken Forrests, and what golden Mines! "What Mints of Men, what Union of Designes! "Unless their Ships, do, as their Fowle proceed "Of shedding Leaves, that with their Ocean breed. "Theirs are not Ships, but rather Arks of War, "And beaked Promontories sail'd from far; "Of floting Islands a new Hatched Nest; "A Fleet of Worlds, of other Worlds in quest; "An hideous shole of wood Leviathans, "Arm'd with three Tire of brazen Hurricans; "That through the Center shoot their thundring side "And sink the Earth that does at Anchor ride. 'What refuge to escape them can be found, "Whose watry Leaguers all the world surround? "Needs must we all their Tributaries be, "Whose Navies hold the Sluces of the Sea. "The Ocean is the Fountain of Command, "But that once took, we Captives are on Land: "And those that have the Waters for their share, "Can quickly leave us neither Earth nor Air. "Yet if through these our Fears could find a pass; "Through double Oak, & lin'd with treble Brass; "That one Man still, although but nam'd, alarms 145 "More then all Men, all Navies, and all Arms. "Him, all the Day, Him, in late Nights I dread, "And still his Sword seems hanging o're my head. "The Nation had been ours, but his one Soul "Moves the great Bulk, and animates the whole. "He Secrecy with Number hath inchas'd, "Courage with Age, Maturity with Hast: "The Valiants Terror, Riddle of the Wise; "And still his Fauchion all our Knots unties. "Where did he learn those Arts that cost us dear? "Where below Earth, or where above the Sphere? "He seems a King by long Succession born, "And yet the same to be a King does scorn. "Abroad a King he seems, and something more, "At Home a Subject on the equal Floor. "O could I once him with our Title see, "So should I hope yet he might Dye as wee. "But let them write his Praise that love him best, "It grieves me sore to have thus much confest. "Pardon, great Prince, if thus their Fear or Spight "More then our Love and Duty do thee Right. "I yield, nor further will the Prize contend; "So that we both alike may miss our End: "While thou thy venerable Head dost raise "As far above their Malice as my Praise. "And as the Angel of our Commonweal, "Troubling the Waters, yearly mak'st them Heal. ~ Andrew Marvell,

865:The Emigrants: Book Ii Scene, on an Eminence on one of those Downs, which afford to the South a view of the Sea; to the North of the Weald of Sussex. Time, an Afternoon in April, 1793. Long wintry months are past; the Moon that now Lights her pale crescent even at noon, has made Four times her revolution; since with step, Mournful and slow, along the wave-worn cliff, Pensive I took my solitary way, Lost in despondence, while contemplating Not my own wayward destiny alone, (Hard as it is, and difficult to bear!) But in beholding the unhappy lot Of the lorn Exiles; who, amid the storms Of wild disastrous Anarchy, are thrown, Like shipwreck'd sufferers, on England's coast, To see, perhaps, no more their native land, Where Desolation riots: They, like me, From fairer hopes and happier prospects driven, Shrink from the future, and regret the past. But on this Upland scene, while April comes, With fragrant airs, to fan my throbbing breast, Fain would I snatch an interval from Care, That weighs my wearied spirit down to earth; Courting, once more, the influence of Hope (For "Hope" still waits upon the flowery prime) As here I mark Spring's humid hand unfold The early leaves that fear capricious winds, While, even on shelter'd banks, the timid flowers Give, half reluctantly, their warmer hues To mingle with the primroses' pale stars. No shade the leafless copses yet afford, Nor hide the mossy labours of the Thrush, That, startled, darts across the narrow path; But quickly re-assur'd, resumes his talk, Or adds his louder notes to those that rise From yonder tufted brake; where the white buds Of the first thorn are mingled with the leaves 164 Of that which blossoms on the brow of May. Ah! 'twill not be:---- So many years have pass'd, Since, on my native hills, I learn'd to gaze On these delightful landscapes; and those years Have taught me so much sorrow, that my soul Feels not the joy reviving Nature brings; But, in dark retrospect, dejected dwells On human follies, and on human woes.---What is the promise of the infant year, The lively verdure, or the bursting blooms, To those, who shrink from horrors such as War Spreads o'er the affrighted world? With swimming eye, Back on the past they throw their mournful looks, And see the Temple, which they fondly hop'd Reason would raise to Liberty, destroy'd By ruffian hands; while, on the ruin'd mass, Flush'd with hot blood, the Fiend of Discord sits In savage triumph; mocking every plea Of policy and justice, as she shews The headless corse of one, whose only crime Was being born a Monarch--Mercy turns, From spectacle so dire, her swol'n eyes; And Liberty, with calm, unruffled brow Magnanimous, as conscious of her strength In Reason's panoply, scorns to distain Her righteous cause with carnage, and resigns To Fraud and Anarchy the infuriate crowd.---What is the promise of the infant year To those, who (while the poor but peaceful hind Pens, unmolested, the encreasing flock Of his rich master in this sea-fenc'd isle) Survey, in neighbouring countries, scenes that make The sick heart shudder; and the Man, who thinks, Blush for his species? There the trumpet's voice Drowns the soft warbling of the woodland choir; And violets, lurking in their turfy beds Beneath the flow'ring thorn, are stain'd with blood. There fall, at once, the spoiler and the spoil'd; While War, wide-ravaging, annihilates The hope of cultivation; gives to Fiends, The meagre, ghastly Fiends of Want and Woe, The blasted land--There, taunting in the van 165 Of vengeance-breathing armies, Insult stalks; And, in the ranks, "1 Famine, and Sword, and Fire, "Crouch for employment."--Lo! the suffering world, Torn by the fearful conflict, shrinks, amaz'd, From Freedom's name, usurp'd and misapplied, And, cow'ring to the purple Tyrant's rod, Deems that the lesser ill--Deluded Men! Ere ye prophane her ever-glorious name, Or catalogue the thousands that have bled Resisting her; or those, who greatly died Martyrs to Liberty --revert awhile To the black scroll, that tells of regal crimes Committed to destroy her; rather count The hecatombs of victims, who have fallen Beneath a single despot; or who gave Their wasted lives for some disputed claim Between anointed robbers: 2 Monsters both! "3 Oh! Polish'd perturbation--golden care!" So strangely coveted by feeble Man To lift him o'er his fellows;--Toy, for which Such showers of blood have drench'd th' affrighted earth-Unfortunate his lot, whose luckless head Thy jewel'd circlet, lin'd with thorns, has bound; And who, by custom's laws, obtains from thee Hereditary right to rule, uncheck'd, Submissive myriads: for untemper'd power, Like steel ill form'd, injures the hand It promis'd to protect--Unhappy France! If e'er thy lilies, trampled now in dust, And blood-bespotted, shall again revive In silver splendour, may the wreath be wov'n By voluntary hands; and Freemen, such As England's self might boast, unite to place The guarded diadem on his fair brow, Where Loyalty may join with Liberty To fix it firmly.--In the rugged school Of stern Adversity so early train'd, His future life, perchance, may emulate That of the brave Bernois 4 , so justly call'd The darling of his people; who rever'd The Warrior less, than they ador'd the Man! But ne'er may Party Rage, perverse and blind, 166 And base Venality, prevail to raise To public trust, a wretch, whose private vice Makes even the wildest profligate recoil; And who, with hireling ruffians leagu'd, has burst The laws of Nature and Humanity! Wading, beneath the Patriot's specious mask, And in Equality's illusive name, To empire thro' a stream of kindred blood-Innocent prisoner!--most unhappy heir Of fatal greatness, who art suffering now For all the crimes and follies of thy race; Better for thee, if o'er thy baby brow The regal mischief never had been held: Then, in an humble sphere, perhaps content, Thou hadst been free and joyous on the heights Of Pyrennean mountains, shagg'd with woods Of chesnut, pine, and oak: as on these hills Is yonder little thoughtless shepherd lad, Who, on the slope abrupt of downy turf Reclin'd in playful indolence, sends off The chalky ball, quick bounding far below; While, half forgetful of his simple task, Hardly his length'ning shadow, or the bells' Slow tinkling of his flock, that supping tend To the brown fallows in the vale beneath, Where nightly it is folded, from his sport Recal the happy idler.--While I gaze On his gay vacant countenance, my thoughts Compare with his obscure, laborious lot, Thine, most unfortunate, imperial Boy! Who round thy sullen prison daily hear'st The savage howl of Murder, as it seeks Thy unoffending life: while sad within Thy wretched Mother, petrified with grief, Views thee with stony eyes, and cannot weep!-Ah! much I mourn thy sorrows, hapless Queen! And deem thy expiation made to Heaven For every fault, to which Prosperity Betray'd thee, when it plac'd thee on a throne Where boundless power was thine, and thou wert rais'd High (as it seem'd) above the envious reach Of destiny! Whate'er thy errors were, 167 Be they no more remember'd; tho' the rage Of Party swell'd them to such crimes, as bade Compassion stifle every sigh that rose For thy disastrous lot--More than enough Thou hast endur'd; and every English heart, Ev'n those, that highest beat in Freedom's cause, Disclaim as base, and of that cause unworthy, The Vengeance, or the Fear, that makes thee still A miserable prisoner!--Ah! who knows, From sad experience, more than I, to feel For thy desponding spirit, as it sinks Beneath procrastinated fears for those More dear to thee than life! But eminence Of misery is thine, as once of joy; And, as we view the strange vicissitude, We ask anew, where happiness is found?-----Alas! in rural life, where youthful dreams See the Arcadia that Romance describes, Not even Content resides!--In yon low hut Of clay and thatch, where rises the grey smoke Of smold'ring turf, cut from the adjoining moor, The labourer, its inhabitant, who toils From the first dawn of twilight, till the Sun Sinks in the rosy waters of the West, Finds that with poverty it cannot dwell; For bread, and scanty bread, is all he earns For him and for his household--Should Disease, Born of chill wintry rains, arrest his arm, Then, thro' his patch'd and straw-stuff'd casement, peeps The squalid figure of extremest Want; And from the Parish the reluctant dole, Dealt by th' unfeeling farmer, hardly saves The ling'ring spark of life from cold extinction: Then the bright Sun of Spring, that smiling bids All other animals rejoice, beholds, Crept from his pallet, the emaciate wretch Attempt, with feeble effort, to resume Some heavy task, above his wasted strength, Turning his wistful looks (how much in vain!) To the deserted mansion, where no more The owner (gone to gayer scenes) resides, Who made even luxury, Virtue; while he gave 168 The scatter'd crumbs to honest Poverty.-But, tho' the landscape be too oft deform'd By figures such as these, yet Peace is here, And o'er our vallies, cloath'd with springing corn, No hostile hoof shall trample, nor fierce flames Wither the wood's young verdure, ere it form Gradual the laughing May's luxuriant shade; For, by the rude sea guarded, we are safe, And feel not evils such as with deep sighs The Emigrants deplore, as, they recal The Summer past, when Nature seem'd to lose Her course in wild distemperature, and aid, With seasons all revers'd, destructive War. Shuddering, I view the pictures they have drawn Of desolated countries, where the ground, Stripp'd of its unripe produce, was thick strewn With various Death--the war-horse falling there By famine, and his rider by the sword. The moping clouds sail'd heavy charg'd with rain, And bursting o'er the mountains misty brow, Deluged, as with an inland sea, the vales 5 ; Where, thro' the sullen evening's lurid gloom, Rising, like columns of volcanic fire, The flames of burning villages illum'd The waste of water; and the wind, that howl'd Along its troubled surface, brought the groans Of plunder'd peasants, and the frantic shrieks Of mothers for their children; while the brave, To pity still alive, listen'd aghast To these dire echoes, hopeless to prevent The evils they beheld, or check the rage, Which ever, as the people of one land Meet in contention, fires the human heart With savage thirst of kindred blood, and makes Man lose his nature; rendering him more fierce Than the gaunt monsters of the howling waste. Oft have I heard the melancholy tale, Which, all their native gaiety forgot, These Exiles tell--How Hope impell'd them on, Reckless of tempest, hunger, or the sword, Till order'd to retreat, they knew not why, From all their flattering prospects, they became 169 The prey of dark suspicion and regret 6 : Then, in despondence, sunk the unnerv'd arm Of gallant Loyalty--At every turn Shame and disgrace appear'd, and seem'd to mock Their scatter'd squadrons; which the warlike youth, Unable to endure, often implor'd, As the last act of friendship, from the hand Of some brave comrade, to receive the blow That freed the indignant spirit from its pain. To a wild mountain, whose bare summit hides Its broken eminence in clouds; whose steeps Are dark with woods; where the receding rocks Are worn by torrents of dissolving snow, A wretched Woman, pale and breathless, flies! And, gazing round her, listens to the sound Of hostile footsteps---- No! it dies away: Nor noise remains, but of the cataract, Or surly breeze of night, that mutters low Among the thickets, where she trembling seeks A temporary shelter--clasping close To her hard-heaving heart, her sleeping child, All she could rescue of the innocent groupe That yesterday surrounded her--Escap'd Almost by miracle! Fear, frantic Fear, Wing'd her weak feet: yet, half repentant now Her headlong haste, she wishes she had staid To die with those affrighted Fancy paints The lawless soldier's victims--Hark! again The driving tempest bears the cry of Death, And, with deep sudden thunder, the dread sound Of cannon vibrates on the tremulous earth; While, bursting in the air, the murderous bomb Glares o'er her mansion. Where the splinters fall, Like scatter'd comets, its destructive path Is mark'd by wreaths of flame!--Then, overwhelm'd Beneath accumulated horror, sinks The desolate mourner; yet, in Death itself, True to maternal tenderness, she tries To save the unconscious infant from the storm In which she perishes; and to protect This last dear object of her ruin'd hopes From prowling monsters, that from other hills, 170 More inaccessible, and wilder wastes, Lur'd by the scent of slaughter, follow fierce Contending hosts, and to polluted fields Add dire increase of horrors--But alas! The Mother and the Infant perish both!-The feudal Chief, whose Gothic battlements Frown on the plain beneath, returning home From distant lands, alone and in disguise, Gains at the fall of night his Castle walls, But, at the vacant gate, no Porter sits To wait his Lord's admittance!--In the courts All is drear silence!--Guessing but too well The fatal truth, he shudders as he goes Thro' the mute hall; where, by the blunted light That the dim moon thro' painted casements lends, He sees that devastation has been there: Then, while each hideous image to his mind Rises terrific, o'er a bleeding corse Stumbling he falls; another interrupts His staggering feet--all, all who us'd to rush With joy to meet him--all his family Lie murder'd in his way!--And the day dawns On a wild raving Maniac, whom a fate So sudden and calamitous has robb'd Of reason; and who round his vacant walls Screams unregarded, and reproaches Heaven!-Such are thy dreadful trophies, savage War! And evils such as these, or yet more dire, Which the pain'd mind recoils from, all are thine-The purple Pestilence, that to the grave Sends whom the sword has spar'd, is thine; and thine The Widow's anguish and the Orphan's tears!-Woes such as these does Man inflict on Man; And by the closet murderers, whom we style Wise Politicians; are the schemes prepar'd, Which, to keep Europe's wavering balance even, Depopulate her kingdoms, and consign To tears and anguish half a bleeding world!-Oh! could the time return, when thoughts like these Spoil'd not that gay delight, which vernal Suns, Illuminating hills, and woods, and fields, Gave to my infant spirits--Memory come! 171 And from distracting cares, that now deprive Such scenes of all their beauty, kindly bear My fancy to those hours of simple joy, When, on the banks of Arun, which I see Make its irriguous course thro' yonder meads, I play'd; unconscious then of future ill! There (where, from hollows fring'd with yellow broom, The birch with silver rind, and fairy leaf, Aslant the low stream trembles) I have stood, And meditated how to venture best Into the shallow current, to procure The willow herb of glowing purple spikes, Or flags, whose sword-like leaves conceal'd the tide, Startling the timid reed-bird from her nest, As with aquatic flowers I wove the wreath, Such as, collected by the shepherd girls, Deck in the villages the turfy shrine, And mark the arrival of propitious May.-How little dream'd I then the time would come, When the bright Sun of that delicious month Should, from disturb'd and artificial sleep, Awaken me to never-ending toil, To terror and to tears!--Attempting still, With feeble hands and cold desponding heart, To save my children from the o'erwhelming wrongs, That have for ten long years been heap'd on me!-The fearful spectres of chicane and fraud Have, Proteus like, still chang'd their hideous forms (As the Law lent its plausible disguise), Pursuing my faint steps; and I have seen Friendship's sweet bonds (which were so early form'd,) And once I fondly thought of amaranth Inwove with silver seven times tried) give way, And fail; as these green fan-like leaves of fern Will wither at the touch of Autumn's frost. Yet there are those , whose patient pity still Hears my long murmurs; who, unwearied, try With lenient hands to bind up every wound My wearied spirit feels, and bid me go "Right onward 7 "--a calm votary of the Nymph, Who, from her adamantine rock, points out To conscious rectitude the rugged path, 172 That leads at length to Peace!--Ah! yes, my friends Peace will at last be mine; for in the Grave Is Peace--and pass a few short years, perchance A few short months, and all the various pain I now endure shall be forgotten there, And no memorial shall remain of me, Save in your bosoms; while even your regret Shall lose its poignancy, as ye reflect What complicated woes that grave conceals! But, if the little praise, that may await The Mother's efforts, should provoke the spleen Of Priest or Levite; and they then arraign The dust that cannot hear them; be it yours To vindicate my humble fame; to say, That, not in selfish sufferings absorb'd, "I gave to misery all I had, my tears 8 ." And if, where regulated sanctity Pours her long orisons to Heaven, my voice Was seldom heard, that yet my prayer was made To him who hears even silence; not in domes Of human architecture, fill'd with crowds, But on these hills, where boundless, yet distinct, Even as a map, beneath are spread the fields His bounty cloaths; divided here by woods, And there by commons rude, or winding brooks, While I might breathe the air perfum'd with flowers, Or the fresh odours of the mountain turf; And gaze on clouds above me, as they sail'd Majestic: or remark the reddening north, When bickering arrows of electric fire Flash on the evening sky--I made my prayer In unison with murmuring waves that now Swell with dark tempests, now are mild and blue, As the bright arch above; for all to me Declare omniscient goodness; nor need I Declamatory essays to incite My wonder or my praise, when every leaf That Spring unfolds, and every simple bud, More forcibly impresses on my heart His power and wisdom--Ah! while I adore That goodness, which design'd to all that lives Some taste of happiness, my soul is pain'd 173 By the variety of woes that Man For Man creates--his blessings often turn'd To plagues and curses: Saint-like Piety, Misled by Superstition, has destroy'd More than Ambition; and the sacred flame Of Liberty becomes a raging fire, When Licence and Confusion bid it blaze. From thy high throne, above yon radiant stars, O Power Omnipotent! with mercy view This suffering globe, and cause thy creatures cease, With savage fangs, to tear her bleeding breast: Refrain that rage for power, that bids a Man, Himself a worm, desire unbounded rule O'er beings like himself: Teach the hard hearts Of rulers, that the poorest hind, who dies For their unrighteous quarrels, in thy sight Is equal to the imperious Lord, that leads His disciplin'd destroyers to the field.---May lovely Freedom, in her genuine charms, Aided by stern but equal Justice, drive From the ensanguin'd earth the hell-born fiends Of Pride, Oppression, Avarice, and Revenge, That ruin what thy mercy made so fair! Then shall these ill-starr'd wanderers, whose sad fate These desultory lines lament, regain Their native country; private vengeance then To public virtue yield; and the fierce feuds, That long have torn their desolated land, May (even as storms, that agitate the air, Drive noxious vapours from the blighted earth) Serve, all tremendous as they are, to fix The reign of Reason, Liberty, and Peace! ~ Charlotte Smith,

866:                             What is more gentle than a wind in summer?     What is more soothing than the pretty hummer     That stays one moment in an open flower,     And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?     What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing     In a green island, far from all men's knowing?     More healthful than the leafiness of dales?     More secret than a nest of nightingales?     More serene than Cordelia's countenance?     More full of visions than a high romance?     What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!     Low murmurer of tender lullabies!     Light hoverer around our happy pillows!     Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!     Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!     Most happy listener! when the morning blesses     Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes     That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.     But what is higher beyond thought than thee?     Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?     More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,     Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?     What is it? And to what shall I compare it?     It has a glory, and naught else can share it:     The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,     Chasing away all worldliness and folly;     Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,     Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;     And sometimes like a gentle whispering     Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing     That breathes about us in the vacant air;     So that we look around with prying stare,     Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning,     And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;     To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,     That is to crown our name when life is ended.     Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,     And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!     Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,     And die away in ardent mutterings.     No one who once the glorious sun has seen,     And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean     For his great Maker's presence, but must know     What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:     Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,     By telling what he sees from native merit.     O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen     That am not yet a glorious denizen     Of thy wide heaven- Should I rather kneel     Upon some mountain-top until I feel     A glowing splendour round about me hung,     And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?     O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen     That am not yet a glorious denizen     Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,     Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,     Smooth'd for intoxication by the breath     Of flowering bays, that I may die a death     Of luxury, and my young spirit follow     The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo     Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear     The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair     Visions of all places: a bowery nook     Will be elysium- an eternal book     Whence I may copy many a lovely saying     About the leaves, and flowers- about the playing     Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade     Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;     And many a verse from so strange influence     That we must ever wonder how, and whence     It came. Also imaginings will hover     Round my fire-side, and haply there discover     Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander     In happy silence, like the clear Meander     Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot     Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,     Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress     Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,     Write on my tablets all that was permitted,     All that was for our human senses fitted.     Then the events of this wide world I'd seize     Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze     Till at its shoulders it should proudly see     Wings to find out an immortality.     Stop and consider! life is but a day;     A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way     From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep     While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep     Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?     Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;     The reading of an ever-changing tale;     The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;     A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;     A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,     Riding the springy branches of an elm.     O for ten years, that I may overwhelm     Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed     That my own soul has to itself decreed.     Then will I pass the countries that I see     In long perspective, and continually     Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass     Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,     Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,     And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;     Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,     To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,-     Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white     Into a pretty shrinking with a bite     As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,     A lovely tale of human life we'll read.     And one will teach a tame dove how it best     May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;     Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,     Will set a green robe floating round her head,     And still will dance with ever varied ease,     Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:     Another will entice me on, and on     Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;     Till in the bosom of a leafy world     We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd     In the recesses of a pearly shell.     And can I ever bid these joys farewell?     Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,     Where I may find the agonies, the strife     Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,     O'ersailing the blue cragginess, a car     And steeds with streamy manes- the charioteer     Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:     And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly     Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly     Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,     Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.     Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;     And now I see them on the green-hill's side     In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.     The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks     To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear     Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,     Passing along before a dusky space     Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase     Some ever- fleeting music on they sweep.     Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:     Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;     Some with their faces muffled to the ear     Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,     Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom;     Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;     Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways     Flit onward- now a lovely wreath of girls     Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;     And now broad wings. Most awfully intent     The driver of those steeds is forward bent,     And seems to listen: O that I might know     All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.     The visions all are fled- the car is fled     Into the light of heaven, and in their stead     A sense of real things comes doubly strong,     And, like a muddy stream, would bear along     My soul to nothingness: but I will strive     Against all doubtings, and will keep alive     The thought of that same chariot, and the strange     Journey it went.                Is there so small a range     In the present strength of manhood, that the high     Imagination cannot freely fly     As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,     Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds     Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us all?     From the clear space of ether, to the small     Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning     Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening     Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,     E'en in this isle; and who could paragon     The fervid choir that lifted up a noise     Of harmony, to where it aye will poise     Its mighty self of convoluting sound,     Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,     Eternally around a dizzy void?     Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd     With honors; nor had any other care     Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.     Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism     Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,     Made great Apollo blush for this his land.     Men were thought wise who could not understand     His glories: with a puling infant's force     They sway'd about upon a rocking horse,     And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!     The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd     Its gathering waves- ye felt it not. The blue     Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew     Of summer nights collected still to make     The morning precious: beauty was awake!     Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead     To things ye knew not of,- were closely wed     To musty laws lined out with wretched rule     And compass vile: so that ye taught a school     Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,     Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,     Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:     A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask     Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!     That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,     And did not know it,- no, they went about,     Holding a poor, decrepid standard out     Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large     The name of one Boileau!                    O ye whose charge     It is to hover round our pleasant hills!     Whose congregated majesty so fills     My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace     Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,     So near those common folk; did not their shames     Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames     Delight you? Did ye never cluster round     Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,     And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu     To regions where no more the laurel grew?     Or did ye stay to give a welcoming     To some lone spirits who could proudly sing     Their youth away, and die? 'Twas even so:     But let me think away those times of woe:     Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed     Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed     Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard     In many places;- some has been upstirr'd     From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,     By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,     Nested and quiet in a valley mild,     Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild     About the earth: happy are ye and glad.     These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've had     Strange thunders from the potency of song;     Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,     From majesty: but in clear truth the themes     Are ugly clubs, the Poets' Polyphemes     Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower     Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;     'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.     The very archings of her eye-lids charm     A thousand willing agents to obey,     And still she governs with the mildest sway:     But strength alone though of the Muses born     Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,     Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres     Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,     And thorns of life; forgetting the great end     Of poesy, that it should be a friend     To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.      Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than     E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds     Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds     A silent space with ever sprouting green.     All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,     Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,     Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.     Then let us clear away the choking thorns     From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,     Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,     Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown     With simple flowers: let there nothing be     More boisterous than a lover's bended knee;     Nought more ungentle than the placid look     Of one who leans upon a closed book;     Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes     Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!     As she was wont, th' imagination     Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,     And they shall be accounted poet kings     Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.     O may these joys be ripe before I die.     Will not some say that I presumptuously     Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace     'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?     That whining boyhood should with reverence bow     Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!     If I do hide myself, it sure shall be     In the very fane, the light of Poesy:     If I do fall, at least I will be laid     Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;     And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;     And there shall be a kind memorial graven.     But off Despondence! miserable bane!     They should not know thee, who athirst to gain     A noble end, are thirsty every hour.     What though I am not wealthy in the dower     Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know     The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow     Hither and thither all the changing thoughts     Of man: though no great minist'ring reason sorts     Out the dark mysteries of human souls     To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls     A vast idea before me, and I glean     Therefrom my liberty; thence too I've seen     The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear     As anything most true; as that the year     Is made of the four seasons- manifest     As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,     Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I     Be but the essence of deformity,     A coward, did my very eye-lids wink     At speaking out what I have dared to think.     Ah! rather let me like a madman run     Over some precipice; let the hot sun     Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down     Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown     Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.     An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,     Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!     How many days! what desperate turmoil!     Ere I can have explored its widenesses.     Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,     I could unsay those- no, impossible!     Impossible!            For sweet relief I'll dwell     On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay     Begun in gentleness die so away.     E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:     I turn full hearted to the friendly aids     That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,     And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.     The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet     Into the brain ere one can think upon it;     The silence when some rhymes are coming out;     And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:     The message certain to be done to-morrow.     'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow     Some precious book from out its snug retreat,     To cluster round it when we next shall meet.     Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs     Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;     Many delights of that glad day recalling,     When first my senses caught their tender falling.     And with these airs come forms of elegance     Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,     Careless, and grand-fingers soft and round     Parting luxuriant curls;- and the swift bound     Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye     Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.     Thus I remember all the pleasant flow     Of words at opening a portfolio.     Things such as these are ever harbingers     To trains of peaceful images: the stirs     Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:     A linnet starting all about the bushes:     A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,     Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted     With over pleasure- many, many more,     Might I indulge at large in all my store     Of luxuries: yet I must not forget     Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:     For what there may be worthy in these rhymes     I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes     Of friendly voices had just given place     To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace     The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.     It was a poet's house who keeps the keys     Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung     The glorious features of the bards who sung     In other ages- cold and sacred busts     Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts     To clear Futurity his darling fame!     Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim     At swelling apples with a frisky leap     And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap     Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a fane     Of liny marble, and thereto a train     Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:     One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward     The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet     Bending their graceful figures till they meet     Over the trippings of a little child:     And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild     Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.     See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping     Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;-     A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims     At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion     With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean     Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er     Its rocky marge, and balances once more     The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam     Feel all about their undulating home.     Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down     At nothing; just as though the earnest frown     Of over thinking had that moment gone     From off her brow, and left her all alone.     Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,     As if he always listened to the sighs     Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's worn     By horrid suffrance- mightily forlorn.     Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,     Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean     His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!     For over them was seen a free display     Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone     The face of Poesy: from off her throne     She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.     The very sense of where I was might well     Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came     Thought after thought to nourish up the flame     Within my breast; so that the morning light     Surprised me even from a sleepless night;     And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,     Resolving to begin that very day     These lines; and howsoever they be done,     I leave them as a father does his son.             THE END (lines 250-1): An idea, says Leigh Hunt... "of as lovely and powerful a nature in embodying an abstraction, as we ever remember to have seen put into words." (line 354): Leigh Hunt's house: he says ... the poem "originated in sleeping in a room adorned with busts and pictures," -- "many a bust from Shout," as Shelley wrote to Mrs. Gisborne. In Hunt's Correspondence (Volume i, page 289) we read "Keats's Sleep and Poetry is a description of a parlour that was mine, no bigger than an old mansion's closet." Charles Cowden Clarke says (Gentleman's Magazine, February 1874) "It was in the library at Hunt's cottage, where an extemporary bed had been made up for him on the sofa." ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Chaucer ,

867:The Botanic Garden (Part Viii) THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS CANTO IV. Now the broad Sun his golden orb unshrouds, Flames in the west, and paints the parted clouds; O'er heaven's wide arch refracted lustres flow, And bend in air the many-colour'd bow.-The tuneful Goddess on the glowing sky Fix'd in mute extacy her glistening eye; And then her lute to sweeter tones she strung, And swell'd with softer chords the Paphian song. Long ailes of Oaks return'd the silver sound, And amorous Echoes talk'd along the ground; Pleas'd Lichfield listen'd from her sacred bowers, Bow'd her tall groves, and shook her stately towers. 'Nymph! not for thee the radiant day returns, Nymph! not for thee the golden solstice burns, Refulgent CEREA!-at the dusky hour She seeks with pensive step the mountain-bower, Bright as the blush of rising morn, and warms The dull cold eye of Midnight with her charms. There to the skies she lifts her pencill'd brows, Opes her fair lips, and breathes her virgin vows; Eyes the white zenyth; counts the suns, that roll Their distant fires, and blaze around the Pole; Or marks where Jove directs his glittering car O'er Heaven's blue vault,-Herself a brighter star. -There as soft Zephyrs sweep with pausing airs Thy snowy neck, and part thy shadowy hairs, Sweet Maid of Night! to Cynthia's sober beams Glows thy warm cheek, thy polish'd bosom gleams. In crowds around thee gaze the admiring swains, And guard in silence the enchanted plains; Drop the still tear, or breathe the impassion'd sigh, And drink inebriate rapture from thine eye. Thus, when old Needwood's hoary scenes the Night 66 Paints with blue shadow, and with milky light; Where MUNDY pour'd, the listening nymphs among, Loud to the echoing vales his parting song; With measured step the Fairy Sovereign treads, Shakes her high plume, and glitters o'er the meads; Round each green holly leads her sportive train, And little footsteps mark the circled plain; Each haunted rill with silver voices rings, And Night's sweet bird in livelier accents sings. Ere the bright star, which leads the morning sky, Hangs o'er the blushing east his diamond eye, The chaste TROPAEO leaves her secret bed; A saint-like glory trembles round her head; Eight watchful swains along the lawns of night With amorous steps pursue the virgin light; O'er her fair form the electric lustre plays, And cold she moves amid the lambent blaze. So shines the glow-fly, when the sun retires, And gems the night-air with phosphoric fires; Thus o'er the marsh aërial lights betray, And charm the unwary wanderer from his way. So when thy King, Assyria, fierce and proud, Three human victims to his idol vow'd; Rear'd a vast pyre before the golden shrine Of sulphurous coal, and pitch-exsuding pine;-Loud roar the flames, the iron nostrils breathe, And the huge bellows pant and heave beneath; Bright and more bright the blazing deluge flows, And white with seven-fold heat the furnace glows. And now the Monarch fix'd with dread surprize Deep in the burning vault his dazzled eyes. 'Lo! Three unbound amid the frightful glare, Unscorch'd their sandals, and unsing'd their hair! And now a fourth with seraph-beauty bright Descends, accosts them, and outshines the light! Fierce flames innocuous, as they step, retire! And slow they move amid a world of fire!' He spoke,-to Heaven his arms repentant spread, And kneeling bow'd his gem-incircled head. 67 Two Sister-Nymphs, the fair AVENAS, lead Their fleecy squadrons on the lawns of Tweed; Pass with light step his wave-worn banks along, And wake his Echoes with their silver tongue; Or touch the reed, as gentle Love inspires, In notes accordant to their chaste desires. I. 'Sweet ECHO! sleeps thy vocal shell, 'Where this high arch o'erhangs the dell; 'While Tweed with sun-reflecting streams 'Chequers thy rocks with dancing beams?- II. 'Here may no clamours harsh intrude, No brawling hound or clarion rude; Here no fell beast of midnight prowl, And teach thy tortured cliffs to howl! III. 'Be thine to pour these vales along Some artless Shepherd's evening song; While Night's sweet bird, from yon high spray Responsive, listens to his lay. IV. 'And if, like me, some love-lorn maid 'Should sing her sorrows to thy shade, 'Oh, sooth her breast, ye rocks around! 'With softest sympathy of sound.' From ozier bowers the brooding Halcyons peep, The Swans pursuing cleave the glassy deep, On hovering wings the wondering Reed-larks play, And silent Bitterns listen to the lay.- 68 Three shepherd-swains beneath the beechen shades Twine rival garlands for the tuneful maids; On each smooth bark the mystic love-knot frame, Or on white sands inscribe the favour'd name. From Time's remotest dawn where China brings In proud succession all her Patriot-Kings; O'er desert-sands, deep gulfs, and hills sublime, Extends her massy wall from clime to clime; With bells and dragons crests her Pagod-bowers, Her silken palaces, and porcelain towers; With long canals a thousand nations laves; Plants all her wilds, and peoples all her waves; Slow treads fair CANNABIS the breezy strand, The distaff streams dishevell'd in her hand; Now to the left her ivory neck inclines, And leads in Paphian curves its azure lines; Dark waves the fringed lid, the warm cheek glows, And the fair ear the parting locks disclose; Now to the right with airy sweep she bends, Quick join the threads, the dancing spole depends. Five Swains attracted guard the Nymph, by turns Her grace inchants them, and her beauty burns; To each She bows with sweet assuasive smile, Hears his soft vows, and turns her spole the while. So when with light and shade, concordant strife! Stern CLOTHO weaves the chequer'd thread of life; Hour after hour the growing line extends, The cradle and the coffin bound its ends; Soft cords of silk the whirling spoles reveal, If smiling Fortune turn the giddy wheel; But if sweet Love with baby-fingers twines, And wets with dewy lips the lengthening lines, Skein after skein celestial tints unfold, And all the silken tissue shines with gold. Warm with sweet blushes bright GALANTHA glows, And prints with frolic step the melting snows; O'er silent floods, white hills, and glittering meads Six 69 rival swains the playful beauty leads, Chides with her dulcet voice the tardy Spring, Bids slumbering Zephyr stretch his folded wing, Wakes the hoarse Cuckoo in his gloomy cave, And calls the wondering Dormouse from his grave, Bids the mute Redbreast cheer the budding grove, And plaintive Ringdove tune her notes to love. Spring! with thy own sweet smile, and tuneful tongue, Delighted BELLIS calls her infant throng. Each on his reed astride, the Cherub-train Watch her kind looks, and circle o'er the plain; Now with young wonder touch the siding snail, Admire his eye-tipp'd horns, and painted mail; Chase with quick step, and eager arms outspread, The pausing Butterfly from mead to mead; Or twine green oziers with the fragrant gale, The azure harebel, and the primrose pale, Join hand in hand, and in procession gay Adorn with votive wreaths the shrine of May. -So moves the Goddess to the Idalian groves, And leads her gold-hair'd family of Loves. These, from the flaming furnace, strong and bold Pour the red steel into the sandy mould; On tinkling anvils (with Vulcanian art), Turn with hot tongs, and forge the dreadful dart; The barbed head on whirling jaspers grind, And dip the point in poison for the mind; Each polish'd shaft with snow-white plumage wing, Or strain the bow reluctant to its string. Those on light pinion twine with busy hands, Or stretch from bough to bough the flowery bands; Scare the dark beetle, as he wheels on high, Or catch in silken nets the gilded fly; Call the young Zephyrs to their fragrant bowers, And stay with kisses sweet the Vernal Hours. Where, as proud Maffon rises rude and bleak, And with mishapen turrets crests the Peak, Old Matlock gapes with marble jaws, beneath, And o'er fear'd Derwent bends his flinty teeth; Deep in wide caves below the dangerous soil Blue sulphurs flame, imprison'd waters boil. Impetuous steams in spiral colums rise 70 Through rifted rocks, impatient for the skies; Or o'er bright seas of bubbling lavas blow, As heave and toss the billowy fires below; Condensed on high, in wandering rills they glide From Maffon's dome, and burst his sparry side; Round his grey towers, and down his fringed walls, From cliff to cliff, the liquid treasure falls; In beds of stalactite, bright ores among, O'er corals, shells, and crystals, winds along; Crusts the green mosses, and the tangled wood, And sparkling plunges to its parent flood. -O'er the warm wave a smiling youth presides, Attunes its murmurs, its meanders guides, (The blooming FUCUS), in her sparry coves To amorous Echo sings his secret loves, Bathes his fair forehead in the misty stream, And with sweet breath perfumes the rising steam. -So, erst, an Angel o'er Bethesda's springs, Each morn descending, shook his dewy wings; And as his bright translucent form He laves, Salubrious powers enrich the troubled waves. Amphibious Nymph, from Nile's prolific bed Emerging TRAPA lifts her pearly head; Fair glows her virgin cheek and modest breast, A panoply of scales deforms the rest; Her quivering fins and panting gills she hides But spreads her silver arms upon the tides; Slow as she sails, her ivory neck she laves, And shakes her golden tresses o'er the waves. Charm'd round the Nymph, in circling gambols glide Four Nereid-forms, or shoot along the tide; Now all as one they rise with frolic spring, And beat the wondering air on humid wing; Now all descending plunge beneath the main, And lash the foam with undulating train; Above, below, they wheel, retreat, advance, In air and ocean weave the mazy dance; Bow their quick heads, and point their diamond eyes, 71 And twinkle to the sun with ever-changing dyes. Where Andes, crested with volcanic beams, Sheds a long line of light on Plata's streams; Opes all his springs, unlocks his golden caves, And feeds and freights the immeasurable waves; Delighted OCYMA at twilight hours Calls her light car, and leaves the sultry bowers;Love's rising ray, and Youth's seductive dye, Bloom'd on her cheek, and brighten'd in her eye; Chaste, pure, and white, a zone of silver graced Her tender breast, as white, as pure, as chaste;-By four fond swains in playful circles drawn, On glowing wheels she tracks the moon-bright lawn, Mounts the rude cliff, unveils her blushing charms, And calls the panting zephyrs to her arms. Emerged from ocean springs the vaporous air, Bathes her light limbs, uncurls her amber hair, Incrusts her beamy form with films saline, And Beauty blazes through the crystal shrine.So with pellucid studs the ice-flower gems Her rimy foliage, and her candied stems. So from his glassy horns, and pearly eyes, The diamond-beetle darts a thousand dyes; Mounts with enamel'd wings the vesper gale, And wheeling shines in adamantine mail. Thus when loud thunders o'er Gomorrah burst, And heaving earthquakes shook his realms accurst, An Angel-guest led forth the trembling Fair With shadowy hand, and warn'd the guiltless pair; 'Haste from these lands of sin, ye Righteous! fly, Speed the quick step, nor turn the lingering eye!'-Such the command, as fabling Bards indite, When Orpheus charm'd the grisly King of Night; Sooth'd the pale phantoms with his plaintive lay, And led the fair Assurgent into day.Wide yawn'd the earth, the fiery tempest flash'd, And towns and towers in one vast ruin crash'd;Onward they move,--loud horror roars behind, And shrieks of Anguish bellow in the wind. With many a sob, amid a thousand fears, 72 The beauteous wanderer pours her gushing tears; Each soft connection rends her troubled breast, -She turns, unconscious of the stern behest!'I faint!-I fall!-ah, me!-sensations chill Shoot through my bones, my shuddering bosom thrill! I freeze! I freeze! just Heaven regards my fault, Numbs my cold limbs, and hardens into salt!Not yet, not yet, your dying Love resign!This last, last kiss receive!-no longer thine!'She said, and ceased,-her stiffen'd form He press'd, And strain'd the briny column to his breast; Printed with quivering lips the lifeless snow, And wept, and gazed the monument of woe.So when Aeneas through the flames of Troy Bore his pale fire, and led his lovely boy; With loitering step the fair Creusa stay'd, And Death involved her in eternal shade.Oft the lone Pilgrim that his road forsakes, Marks the wide ruins, and the sulphur'd lakes; On mouldering piles amid asphaltic mud Hears the hoarse bittern, where Gomorrah stood; Recalls the unhappy Pair with lifted eye, Leans on the crystal tomb, and breathes the silent sigh.. With net-wove sash and glittering gorget dress'd, And scarlet robe lapell'd upon her breast, Stern ARA frowns, the measured march assumes, Trails her long lance, and nods her shadowy plumes; While Love's soft beams illume her treacherous eyes, And Beauty lightens through the thin disguise. So erst, when HERCULES, untamed by toil, Own'd the soft power of DEJANIRA'S smile;His lion-spoils the laughing Fair demands, And gives the distaff to his awkward hands; O'er her white neck the bristly mane she throws, And binds the gaping whiskers on her brows; Plaits round her slender waist the shaggy vest, And clasps the velvet paws across her breast. Next with soft hands the knotted club she rears, Heaves up from earth, and on her shoulder bears. Onward with loftier step the Beauty treads, And trails the brinded ermine o'er the meads; Wolves, bears, and bards, forsake the affrighted groves, 73 And grinning Satyrs tremble, as she moves. CARYO'S sweet smile DIANTHUS proud admires, And gazing burns with unallow'd desires; With sighs and sorrows her compassion moves, And wins the damsel to illicit loves. The Monster-offspring heirs the father's pride, Mask'd in the damask beauties of the bride. So, when the Nightingale in eastern bowers On quivering pinion woos the Queen of flowers; Inhales her fragrance, as he hangs in air, And melts with melody the blushing fair; Half-rose, half-bird, a beauteous Monster springs, Waves his thin leaves, and claps his glossy wings; Long horrent thorns his mossy legs surround, And tendril-talons root him to the ground; Green films of rind his wrinkled neck o'espread, And crimson petals crest his curled head; Soft-warbling beaks in each bright blossom move, And vocal Rosebuds thrill the enchanted grove!Admiring Evening stays her beamy star, And still Night listens from his ebon ear; While on white wings descending Houries throng, And drink the floods of odour and of song. When from his golden urn the Solstice pours O'er Afric's sable sons the sultry hours; When not a gale flits o'er her tawny hills, Save where the dry Harmattan breathes and kills; -Fair CHUNDA smiles amid the burning waste, Her brow unturban'd, and her zone unbrac'd; Ten brother-youths with light umbrella's shade, Or fan with busy hands the panting maid; Loose wave her locks, disclosing, as they break, The rising bosom and averted cheek; Clasp'd round her ivory neck with studs of gold Flows her thin vest in many a gauzy fold; O'er her light limbs the dim transparence plays, And the fair form, it seems to hide, betrays. Where leads the northern Star his lucid train High o'er the snow-clad earth, and icy main, With milky light the white horizon streams, 74 And to the moon each sparkling mountain gleams.Slow o'er the printed snows with silent walk Huge shaggy forms across the twilight stalk; And ever and anon with hideous sound Burst the thick ribs of ice, and thunder round.There, as old Winter slaps his hoary wing, And lingering leaves his empire to the Spring, Pierced with quick shafts of silver-shooting light Fly in dark troops the dazzled imps of night'Awake, my Love!' enamour'd MUSCHUS cries, 'Stretch thy fair limbs, resulgent Maid! arise; Ope thy sweet eye-lids to the rising ray, And hail with ruby lips returning day. Down the white hills dissolving torrents pour, Green springs the turf, and purple blows the flower; His torpid wing the Rail exulting tries, Mounts the soft gale, and wantons in the skies; Rise, let us mark how bloom the awaken'd groves, And 'mid the banks of roses hide our loves.' Night's tinsel beams on smooth Lock-lomond dance, Impatient ÆGA views the bright expanse;In vain her eyes the parting floods explore, Wave after wave rolls freightless to the shore. -Now dim amid the distant foam she spies A rising speck,-''tis he! 'tis he!' She cries; As with firm arms he beats the streams aside, And cleaves with rising chest the tossing tide, With bended knee she prints the humid sands, Up-turns her glistening eyes, and spreads her hands; -''Tis he, 'tis he!-My Lord, my life, my love!Slumber, ye winds; ye billows, cease to move! beneath his arms your buoyant plumage spread, Ye Swans! ye Halcyons! hover round his head!'-With eager step the boiling surf she braves, And meets her refluent lover in the waves; Loose o'er the flood her azure mantle swims, And the clear stream betrays her snowy limbs. So on her sea-girt tower fair HERO stood At parting day, and mark'd the dashing flood; While high in air, the glimmering rocks above, 75 Shone the bright lamp, the pilot-star of Love. -With robe outspread the wavering flame behind She kneels, and guards it from the shifting wind; Breathes to her Goddess all her vows, and guides Her bold LEANDER o'er the dusky tides; Wrings his wet hair, his briny bosom warms, And clasps her panting lover in her arms. Deep, in wide caverns and their shadowy ailes, Daughter of Earth, the chaste TRUFFELIA smiles; On silvery beds, of soft asbestus wove, Meets her Gnome-husband, and avows her love. High o'er her couch impending diamonds blaze, And branching gold the crystal roof inlays; With verdant light the modest emeralds glow, Blue sapphires glare, and rubies blush, below Light piers of lazuli the dome surround, And pictured mochoes tesselate the ground; In glittering threads along reflective walls The warm rill murmuring twinkles, as it falls; Now sink the Eolian strings, and now they swell, And Echoes woo in every vaulted cell; While on white wings delighted Cupids play, Shake their bright lamps, and shed celestial day. Closed in an azure fig by fairy spells, Bosom'd in down, fair CAPRI-FICA dwells;So sleeps in silence the Curculio, shut In the dark chambers of the cavern'd nut, Erodes with ivory beak the vaulted shell, And quits on filmy wings its narrow cell. So the pleased Linnet in the moss-wove nest, Waked into life beneath its parent's breast, Chirps in the gaping shell, bursts forth erelong, Shakes its new plumes, and tries its tender song.-And now the talisman she strikes, that charms Her husband-Sylph,-and calls him to her arms.Quick, the light Gnat her airy Lord bestrides, With cobweb reins the flying courser guides, From crystal steeps of viewless ether springs, 76 Cleaves the soft air on still expanded wings; Darts like a sunbeam o'er the boundless wave, And seeks the beauty in her secret cave. So with quick impulse through all nature's frame Shoots the electric air its subtle flame. So turns the impatient needle to the pole, Tho' mountains rise between, and oceans roll. Where round the Orcades white torrents roar, Scooping with ceaseless rage the incumbent shore, Wide o'er the deep a dusky cavern bends Its marble arms, and high in air impends; Basaltic piers the ponderous roof sustain, And steep their massy sandals in the main; Round the dim walls, and through the whispering ailes Hoarse breathes the wind, the glittering water boils. Here the charm'd BYSSUS with his blooming bride Spreads his green sails, and braves the foaming tide; The star of Venus gilds the twilight wave, And lights her votaries to the secret cave; Light Cupids flutter round the nuptial bed, And each coy sea-maid hides her blushing head. Where cool'd by rills, and curtain'd round by woods, Slopes the green dell to meet the briny floods, The sparkling noon-beams trembling on the tide, The PROTEUS-LOVER woos his playful bride, To win the fair he tries a thousand forms, Basks on the sands, or gambols in the storms. A Dolphin now, his scaly sides he laves, And bears the sportive damsel on the waves; She strikes the cymbal as he moves along, And wondering Ocean listens to the song. -And now a spotted Pard the lover stalks, Plays round her steps, and guards her favour'd walks; As with white teeth he prints her hand, caress'd, And lays his velvet paw upon her breast, O'er his round face her snowy fingers strain The silken knots, and fit the ribbon-rein. -And now a Swan, he spreads his plumy sails, 77 And proudly glides before the fanning gales; Pleas'd on the flowery brink with graceful hand She waves her floating lover to the land; Bright shines his sinuous neck, with crimson beak He prints fond kisses on her glowing cheek, Spreads his broad wings, elates his ebon crest, And clasps the beauty to his downy breast. hundred virgins join a hundred swains, And fond ADONIS leads the sprightly trains; Pair after pair, along his sacred groves To Hymen's fane the bright procession moves; Each smiling youth a myrtle garland shades, And wreaths of roses veil the blushing maids; Light joys on twinkling feet attend the throng, Weave the gay dance, or raise the frolic song; -Thick, as they pass, exulting Cupids fling Promiscuous arrows from the sounding string; On wings of gossamer soft Whispers fly, And the sly Glance steals side-long from the eye. -As round his shrine the gaudy circles bow, And seal with muttering lips the faithless vow, Licentious Hymen joins their mingled hands, And loosely twines the meretricious bands.Thus where pleased VENUS, in the southern main, Sheds all her smiles on Otaheite's plain, Wide o'er the isle her silken net she draws, And the Loves laugh at all, but Nature's laws.' Here ceased the Goddess,-o'er the silent strings Applauding Zephyrs swept their fluttering wings; Enraptur'd Sylphs arose in murmuring crowds To air-wove canopies and pillowy clouds; Each Gnome reluctant sought his earthy cell, And each bright Floret clos'd her velvet bell. Then, on soft tiptoe, NIGHT approaching near Hung o'er the tuneless lyre his sable ear; Gem'd with bright stars the still etherial plain, And bad his Nightingales repeat the strain. 78 ~ Erasmus Darwin,

868:From 'Omeros' BOOK SIX Chapter XLIV In hill-towns, from San Fernando to Mayagüez, the same sunrise stirred the feathered lances of cane down the archipelago's highways. The first breeze rattled the spears and their noise was like distant rain marching down from the hills, like a shell at your ears. In the cool asphalt Sundays of the Antilles the light brought the bitter history of sugar across the squared fields, heightening towards harvest, to the bleached flags of the Indian diaspora. The drizzling light blew across the savannah darkening the racehorses' hides; mist slowly erased the royal palms on the crests of the hills and the hills themselves. The brown patches the horses had grazed shone as wet as their hides. A skittish stallion jerked at his bridle, marble-eyed at the thunder muffling the hills, but the groom was drawing him in like a fisherman, wrapping the slack line under one fist, then with the other tightening the rein and narrowing the circle. The sky cracked asunder and a forked tree flashed, and suddenly that black rain which can lose an entire archipelago in broad daylight was pouring tin nails on the roof, hammering the balcony. I closed the French window, and thought of the horses in their stalls with one hoof 22 tilted, watching the ropes of rain. I lay in bed with current gone from the bed-lamp and heard the roar of wind shaking the windows, and I remembered Achille on his own mattress and desperate Hector trying to save his canoe, I thought of Helen as my island lost in the haze, and I was sure I'd never see her again. All of a sudden the rain stopped and I heard the sluicing of water down the guttering. I opened the window when the sun came out. It replaced the tiny brooms of palms on the ridges. On the red galvanized roof of the paddock, the wet sparkled, then the grooms led the horses over the new grass and exercised them again, and there was a different brightness in everything, in the leaves, in the horses' eyes. II I smelt the leaves threshing at the top of the year in green January over the orange villas and military barracks where the Plunketts were, the harbour flecked by the wind that comes with Christmas, edged with the Arctic, that was christened Vent Noël; it stayed until March and, with luck, until Easter. It freshened the cedars, waxed the laurier-cannelle, and hid the African swift. I smelt the drizzle on the asphalt leaving the Morne, it was the smell of an iron on damp cloth; I heard the sizzle of fried jackfish in oil with their coppery skin; I smelt ham studded with cloves, the crusted accra, the wax in the varnished parlour: Come in. Come in, the arm of the Morris chair sticky with lacquer; I saw a sail going out and a sail coming in, 23 and a breeze so fresh it lifted the lace curtains like a petticoat, like a sail towards Ithaca; I smelt a dead rivulet in the clogged drains. III Ah, twin-headed January, seeing either tense: a past, they assured us, born in degradation, and a present that lifted us up with the wind's noise in the breadfruit leaves with such an elation that it contradicts what is past! The cannonballs of rotting breadfruit from the Battle of the Saints, the asterisks of bulletholes in the brick walls of the redoubt. I lived there with every sense. I smelt with my eyes, I could see with my nostrils. Chapter XLV One side of the coast plunges its precipices into the Atlantic. Turns require wide locks, since the shoulder is sharp and the curve just misses a long drop over the wind-bent trees and the rocks between the trees. There is a wide view of Dennery, with its stone church and raw ochre cliffs at whose base the African breakers end. Across the flecked sea whose combers veil and unveil the rocks with their lace the next port is Dakar. The uninterrupted wind thuds under the wings of frigates, you see them bent from a force that has crossed the world, tilting to find purchase in the sudden downdrafts of its current. 24 The breeze threshed the palms on the cool December road where the Comet hurtled with empty leopard seats, so fast a man on a donkey trying to read its oncoming fiery sign heard only two thudding beats from the up-tempo zouk that its stereo played when it screeched round a bridge and began to ascend away from the palm-fronds and their wickerwork shade that left the windscreen clear as it locked round the bend, where Hector suddenly saw the trotting piglet and thought of Plunkett's warning as he heard it screel with the same sound that the tires of the Comet made rounding the curve from the sweat-greased steering wheel. The rear wheels spin to a dead stop, like a helm. The piglet trots down the safer side of the road. Lodged in their broken branches the curled letters flame. Hector had both hands on the wheel. His head was bowed under the swaying statue of the Madonna of the Rocks, her smile swayed under the blue hood, and when her fluted robe stilled, the smile stayed on her dimpled porcelain. She saw, in the bowed man, the calm common oval of prayer, the head's usual angle over the pew of the dashboard. Her lifted palm, small as a doll's from its cerulean mantle, indicated that he had prayed enough to the lace of foam round the cliff's altar, that now, if he wished, he could lift his head, but he stayed in the same place, the way a man will remain when Mass is finished, not unclenching his hands or freeing one to cross forehead, heart, and shoulders swiftly and then kneel facing the altar. He bowed in endless remorse, for her mercy at what he had done to Achille, his brother. But his arc was over, for the course 25 of every comet is such. The fated crescent was printed on the road by the scorching tires. A salt tear ran down the porcelain cheek and it went in one slow drop to the clenched knuckle that still gripped the wheel. On the flecked sea, the uninterrupted wind herded the long African combers, and whipped the small flag of the island on its silver spearhead. II Drivers leant over the rail. One seized my luggage off the porter's cart. The rest burst into patois, with gestures of despair at the lost privilege of driving me, then turned to other customers. In the evening pastures horses grazed, their hides wet with light that shot its lances over the combers. I had the transport all to myself. "You all set? Good. A good pal of mine died in that chariot of his called the Comet." He turned in the front seat, spinning the air with his free hand. I sat, sprawled out in the back, discouraging talk, with my crossed feet. "You never know when, eh? I was at the airport that day. I see him take off like a rocket. I always said that thing have too much horsepower. And so said, so done. The same hotel, chief, correct?" I saw the coastal villages receding as the highway's tongue translated bush into forest, the wild savannah into moderate pastures, that other life going in its "change for the best," its peace paralyzed in a postcard, a concrete future ahead of it all, in the cinder-blocks 26 of hotel development with the obsolete craft of the carpenter, as I sensed, in the neat marinas, the fisherman's phantom. Old oarlocks and rusting fretsaw. My craft required the same crouching care, the same crabbed, natural devotion of the hand that stencilled a flowered window-frame or planed an elegant canoe; its time was gone with the spirit in the wood, as wood grew obsolete and plasterers smoothed the blank page of white concrete. I watched the afternoon sea. Didn't I want the poor to stay in the same light so that I could transfix them in amber, the afterglow of an empire, preferring a shed of palm-thatch with tilted sticks to that blue bus-stop? Didn't I prefer a road from which tracks climbed into the thickening syntax of colonial travellers, the measured prose I read as a schoolboy? That cove, with its brown shallows there, Praslin? That heron? Had they waited for me to develop my craft? Why hallow that pretence of preserving what they left, the hypocrisy of loving them from hotels, a biscuit-tin fence smothered in love-vines, scenes to which I was attached as blindly as Plunkett with his remorseful research? Art is History's nostalgia, it prefers a thatched roof to a concrete factory, and the huge church above a bleached village. The gap between the driver and me increased when he said: "The place changing, eh?" where an old rumshop had gone, but not that river with its clogged shadows. That would make me a stranger. "All to the good," he said. I said, "All to the good," 27 then, "whoever they are," to myself. I caught his eyes in the mirror. We were climbing out of Micoud. Hadn't I made their poverty my paradise? His back could have been Hector's, ferrying tourists in the other direction home, the leopard seat scratching their damp backs like the fur-covered armrests. He had driven his burnt-out cargo, tired of sweat, who longed for snow on the moon and didn't have to face the heat of that sinking sun, who knew a climate as monotonous as this one could only produce from its unvarying vegetation flashes of a primal insight like those red-pronged lilies that shot from the verge, that their dried calabashes of fake African masks for a fake Achilles rattled with the seeds that came from other men's minds. So let them think that. Who needed art in this place where even the old women strode with stiff-backed spines, and the fishermen had such adept thumbs, such grace these people had, but what they envied most in them was the calypso part, the Caribbean lilt still in the shells of their ears, like the surf's rhythm, until too much happiness was shadowed with guilt like any Eden, and they sighed at the sign: HEWANNORRA (Iounalao), the gold sea flat as a credit-card, extending its line to a beach that now looked just like everywhere else, Greece or Hawaii. Now the goddamn souvenir felt absurd, excessive. The painted gourds, the shells. Their own faces as brown as gourds. Mine felt as strange as those at the counter feeling their bodies change. III 28 Change lay in our silence. We had come to that bend where the trees are warped by wind, and the cliffs, raw, shelve surely to foam. "Is right here everything end," the driver said, and rammed open the transport door on his side, then mine. "Anyway, chief, the view nice." I joined him at the gusting edge. "His name was Hector." The name was bent like the trees on the precipice to point inland. In its echo a man-o'-war screamed on the wind. The driver moved off for a piss, then shouted over his shoulder: "A road-warrior. He would drive like a madman when the power took. He had a nice woman. Maybe he died for her." For her and tourism, I thought. The driver shook himself, zipping then hoisting his crotch. "Crazy, but a gentle fellow anyway, with a very good brain." Cut to a leopard galloping on a dry plain across Serengeti. Cut to the spraying fans drummed by a riderless stallion, its wild mane scaring the Scamander. Cut to a woman's hands clenched towards her mouth with no sound. Cut to the wheel of a chariot's spiked hubcap. Cut to the face of his muscling jaw, then flashback to Achille hurling a red tin and a cutlass. Next, a vase with a girl's hoarse whisper echoing "Omeros," as in a conch-shell. Cut to a shield of silver rolling like a hubcap. Rewind, in slow motion, myrmidons gathering by a village river 29 with lances for oars. Cut to the surpliced ocean droning its missal. Cut. A crane hoisting a wreck. A horse nosing the surf, then shuddering its neck. He'd paid the penalty of giving up the sea as graceless and as treacherous as it had seemed, for the taxi-business; he was making money, but all of that money was making him ashamed of the long afternoons of shouting by the wharf hustling passengers. He missed the uncertain sand under his feet, he sighed for the trough of a wave, and the jerk of the oar when it turned in his hand, and the rose conch sunset with its low pelicans. Castries was corrupting him with its roaring life, its littered market, with too many transport vans competing. Castries had been his common-law wife who, like Helen, he had longed for from a distance, and now he had both, but a frightening discontent hollowed his face; to find that the sea was a love he could never lose made every gesture violent: ramming the side-door shut, raking the clutch. He drove as if driven by furies, but furies paid the rent. A man who cursed the sea had cursed his own mother. Mer was both mother and sea. In his lost canoe he had said his prayers. But now he was in another kind of life that was changing him with his brand-new stereo, its endless garages, where he could not whip off his shirt, hearing the conch's summoning note. Chapter XLVI 30 Hector was buried near the sea he had loved once. Not too far from the shallows where he fought Achille for a tin and Helen. He did not hear the sea-almond's moan over the bay when Philoctete blew the shell, nor the one drumbeat of a wave-thud, nor a sail rattling to rest as its day's work was over, and its mate, gauging depth, bent over the gunwale, then wearily sounding the fathoms with an oar, the same rite his shipmates would repeat soon enough when it was their turn to lie quiet as Hector, lowering a pitch-pine canoe in the earth's trough, to sleep under the piled conchs, through every weather on the violet-wreathed mound. Crouching for his friend to hear, Achille whispered about their ancestral river, and those things he would recognize when he got there, his true home, forever and ever and ever, forever, compère. Then Philoctete limped over and rested his hand firmly on a shaking shoulder to anchor his sorrow. Seven Seas and Helen did not come nearer. Achille had carried an oar to the church and propped it outside with the red tin. Now his voice strengthened. He said: "Mate, this is your spear," and laid the oar slowly, the same way he had placed the parallel oars in the hull of the gommier the day the African swift and its shadow raced. And this was the prayer that Achille could not utter: "The spear that I give you, my friend, is only wood. Vexation is past. I know how well you treat her. You never know my admiration, when you stood crossing the sun at the bow of the long canoe with the plates of your chest like a shield; I would say any enemy so was a compliment. 'Cause no 31 African ever hurled his wide seine at the bay by which he was born with such beauty. You hear me? Men did not know you like me. All right. Sleep good. Good night." Achille moved Philoctete's hand, then he saw Helen standing alone and veiled in the widowing light. Then he reached down to the grave and lifted the tin to her. Helen nodded. A wind blew out the sun. II Pride set in Helen's face after this, like a stone bracketed with Hector's name; her lips were incised by its dates in parenthesis. She seemed more stern, more ennobled by distance as she slowly crossed the hot street of the village like a distant sail on the horizon. Grief heightened her. When she smiled it was with such distance that it was hard to tell if she had heard your condolence. It was the child, Ma Kilman told them, that made her more beautiful. III The rites of the island were simplified by its elements, which changed places. The grooved sea was Achille's garden, the ridged plot of rattling plantains carried their sense of the sea, and Philoctete, on his height, often heard, in a wind that suddenly churned the rage of deep gorges, the leafy sound of far breakers plunging with smoke, and for smoke there were the bonfires which the sun catches on the blue heights at sunrise, doing the same work as Philoctete clearing his plot, just as, at sunset, smoke came from the glowing rim of the horizon as if from his enamel pot. The woodsmoke smelt of a regret 32 that men cannot name. On the charred field, the massive sawn trunks burnt slowly like towers, and the great indigo dusk slowly plumed down, devouring the still leaves, igniting the firefly huts, lifting the panicky egret to beat its lagoon and shelve in the cage of the mangroves, take in the spars of its sails, then with quick-pricking head anchor itself shiftingly, and lift its question again. At night, the island reversed its elements, the heron of a quarter-moon floated from Hector's grave, rain rose upwards from the sea, and the corrugated iron of the sea glittered with nailheads. Ragged plantains bent and stepped with their rustling powers over the furrows of Philoctete's garden, a chorus of aged ancestors and straw, and, rustling, surrounded every house in the village with its back garden, with its rank midden of rusted chamber pots, rotting nets, and the moon's cold basin. They sounded, when they shook, after the moonlit meridian of their crossing, like the night-surf; they gazed in silence at the shadows of their lamplit children. At Philoctete, groaning and soaking the flower on his shin with hot sulphur, cleaning its edges with yellow Vaseline, and, gripping his knee, squeezing rags from the basin. At night, when yards are asleep, and the broken line of the surf hisses like Philo, "Bon Dieu, aie, waie, my sin is this sore?" the old plantains suffer and shine. Chapter XLVII Islands of bay leaves in the medicinal bath of a cauldron, a sibylline cure. The citron 33 sprig of a lime-tree dividing the sky in half dipped its divining rod. The white spray of the thorn, which the swift bends lightly, waited for a black hand to break it in bits and boil its leaves for the wound from the pronged anchor rusting in clean bottom-sand. Ma Kilman, in a black hat with its berried fringe, eased herself sideways down the broken concrete step of the rumshop's back door, closed it, and rammed the hinge tight. The bolt caught a finger and with that her instep arch twisted and she let out a soft Catholic curse, then crossed herself. She closed the gate. The asphalt sweated with the heat, the limp breadfruit leaves were thick over the fence. Her spectacles swam in their sweat. She plucked an armpit. The damn wig was badly made. She was going to five o'clock Mass, to la Messe, and sometimes she had to straighten it as she prayed until the wafer dissolved her with tenderness, the way a raindrop melts on the tongue of a breeze. In the church's cool cave the sweat dried from her eyes. She rolled down the elastic bands below the knees of her swollen stockings. It was then that their vise round her calves reminded her of Philoctete. Then, numbering her beads, she began her own litany of berries, Hail Mary marigolds that stiffen their aureoles in the heights, mild anemone and clear watercress, the sacred heart of Jesus pierced like the anthurium, the thorns of logwood, called the tree of life, the aloe good for seizures, the hole in the daisy's palm, with its drying blood that was the hole in the fisherman's shin since he was pierced by a hook; there was the pale, roadside tisane 34 of her malarial childhood. There was this one for easing a birth-breach, that one for a love-bath, before the buds of green sugar-apples in the sun ripened like her nipples in girlhood. But what path led through nettles to the cure, the furious sibyl couldn't remember. Mimosa winced from her fingers, shutting like jalousies at some passing evil when she reached for them. The smell of incense lingers in her clothes. Inside, the candle-flames are erect round the bier of the altar while she and her friends old-talk on the steps, but the plant keeps its secret when her memory reaches, shuttering in its fronds. II The dew had not yet dried on the white-ribbed awnings and the nodding palanquins of umbrella yams where the dark grove had not heat but early mornings of perpetual freshness, in which the bearded arms of a cedar held council. Between its gnarled toes grew the reek of an unknown weed; its pronged flower sprang like a buried anchor; its windborne odours diverted the bee from its pollen, but its power, rooted in bitterness, drew her bowed head by the nose as a spike does a circling bull. To approach it Ma Kilman lowered her head to one side and screened the stench with a cologned handkerchief. The mulch it was rooted in carried the smell, when it gangrened, of Philoctete's cut. In her black dress, her berried black hat, she climbed a goat-path up from the village, past the stones with dried palms and conchs, where the buried suffer the sun all day Sunday, while goats forage the new wreaths. Once more she pulled at the itch in her 35 armpits, nearly dropping her purse. Then she climbed hard up the rain-cracked path, the bay closing behind her like a wound, and rested. Everything that echoed repeated its outline: a goat's doddering bleat, a hammer multiplying a roof, and, through the back yards, a mother cursing a boy too nimble to beat. Ma Kilman picked up her purse and sighed on upwards to the thread of the smell, one arm behind her back, passing the cactus, the thorn trees, and then the wood appeared over her, thick green, the green almost black as her dress in its shade, its border of flowers flecking the pasture with spray. Then she staggered back from the line of ants at her feet. She saw the course they had kept behind her, following her from church, signalling a language she could not recognize. III A swift had carried the strong seed in its stomach centuries ago from its antipodal shore, skimming the sea-troughs, outdarting ospreys, her luck held to its shadow. She aimed to carry the cure that precedes every wound; the reversible Bight of Benin was her bow, her target the ringed haze of a circling horizon. The star-grains at night made her hungrier; the leafless sea with no house for her weariness. Sometimes she dozed in her flight for a swift's second, closing the seeds of her stare, then ruddering straight. The dry sea-flakes whitened her breast, her feathers thinned. Then, one dawn the day-star rose slowly from the wrong place and it frightened her because all the breakers were blowing from the wrong 36 east. She saw the horned island and uncurled her claws with one frail cry, since swifts are not given to song, and fluttered down to a beach, ejecting the seed in grass near the sand. She nestled in dry seaweed. In a year she was bleached bone. All of that motion a pile of fragile ash from the fire of her will, but the vine grew its own wings, out of the ocean it climbed like the ants, the ancestors of Achille, the women carrying coals after the dark door slid over the hold. As the weed grew in odour so did its strength at the damp root of the cedar, where the flower was anchored at the mottled root as a lizard crawled upwards, foot by sallow foot. ~ Derek Walcott,

869:My fancies are fireflies, Specks of living light twinkling in the dark. he voice of wayside pansies, that do not attract the careless glance, murmurs in these desultory lines. In the drowsy dark caves of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day's caravan. Spring scatters the petals of flowers that are not for the fruits of the future, but for the moment's whim. Joy freed from the bond of earth's slumber rushes into numberless leaves, and dances in the air for a day. My words that are slight my lightly dance upon time's waves when my works havy with import have gone down. Mind's underground moths grow filmy wings and take a farewell flight in the sunset sky. The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough. My thoughts, like spark, ride on winged surprises, carrying a single laughter. The tree gazes in love at its own beautiful shadow which yet it never can grasp. Let my love, like sunlight, surround you and yet give you illumined freedom. Days are coloured vbubbles that float upon the surface of fathomless night. My offerings are too timid to claim your remembrance, and therefore you may remember them. Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song. April, like a child, writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers, wipes them away and forgets. Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past. From the solemn gloom of the temple children run out to sit in the dust, God watches them play and forgets the priest. My mind starts up at some flash on the flow of its thoughts like a brook at a sudden liquid note of its own that is never repeated. In the mountain, stillness surges up to explore its own height; in the lake, movement stands still to contemplate its own depth. The departing night's one kiss on the closed eyes of morning glows in the star of dawn. Maiden, thy beauty is like a fruit which is yet to mature, tense with an unyielding secret. Sorrow that has lost its memory is like the dumb dark hours that have no bird songs but only the cricket's chirp. Bigotry tries to keep turth safe in its hand with a grip that kills it. Wishing to hearten a timid lamp great night lights all her stars. Though he holds in his arms the earth-bride, the sky is ever immensely away. God seeks comrades and claims love, the Devil seeks slaves and claims obedience. The soil in return for her service keeps the tree tied to her, the sky asks nothing and leaves it free. Jewel-like immortal does not boast of its length of years but of the scintillating point of its moment. The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time, unobscured by the dust of history. Alight laughter in the steps of creation carries it swiftly across time. One who was distant came near to me in the morning, and still nearer when taken away by night. White and pink oleanders meet and make merry in different dialects. When peace is active swepping its dirt, it is storm. The lake lies low by the hill, a tearful entreaty of love at the foot of the inflexible. There smiles the Divine Child among his playthings of unmeaning clouds and ephemeral lights and shadows. The breeze whispers to the lotus, "What is thy secret?" "It is myself," says the lotus, "Steal it and I disappear!" The freedom of the storm and the bondage of the stem join hands in the dance of swaying branches. The jasmine's lisping of love to the sun is her flowers. The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedom and yet to keep it for himself. Gods, tired of their paradise, envy man. Clouds are hills in vapour, hills are clouds in stone, a phantasy in time's dream. While God waits for His temple to be built of love, men bring stones. I touch God in my song as the hill touches the far-away sea with its waterfall. Light finds her treasure of colours through the antagonism of clouds. My heart to-day smiles at its past night of tears like a wet tree glistening in the sun after the rain is over. I have thanked the trees that have made my life fruitflul, but have failed to remember the grass that has ever kept it green. The one without second is emptiness, the other one makes it true. Life's errors cry for the merciful beauty that can modulate their isolation into a harmony with the whole. They expect thanks for the banished nest because their cage is shapely and secure. In love I pay my endless debt to thee for what thou art. The pond sends up its lyrics from its dark in lilies, and the sun says, they are good. Your calumny against the great is impious, it hurts yourself; against the small it is mean, for it hurts the victim. The first flower that blossomed on this earth was an invitation to the unborn song. Dawnthe many-coloured flowerfades, and then the simple light-fruit, the sun appears. The muscle that has a doubt if its wisdom throttles the voice that would cry. The wind tries to take the flame by storm only to blow it out. Life's play is swift, Life's playthings fall behind one by one and are forgotten. My flower, seek not thy paradise in a fool's buttonhole. Thou hast risen late, my crescent moon, but my night bird is still awake to greet thee. Darkness is the veiled bride silently waiting for the errant light to return to her bosom. Trees are the earth's endless effort to speak to the listening heaven. The burden of self is lightened when I laugh at myself. The weak can be terrible because they try furiously to appear strong. The wind of heaven blows, The anchor desperately clutches the mud, and my boat is beating its breast against the chain. The spirit of death is one, the spirit of life is many, Whe God is dead religion becomes one. The blue of the sky longs for the earth's green, the wind between them sighs, "Alas." Day's pain muffled by its own glare, burns among stars in the night. The stars crowd round the virgin night in silent awe at her loneliness that can never be touched. The cloud gives all its gold to the departing sun and greets the rising moon with only a pale smile. He who does good comes to the temple gate, he who loves reaches the shrine. Flower, have pity for the worm, it is not a bee, its love is a blunder and a burden. With the ruins of terror's triumph children build their doll's house. The lamp waits through the long day of neglect for the flame's kiss in the night. Feathers in the dust lying lazily content have forgotten their sky. The flowers which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous. The world suffers most from the disinterested tyranny of its well-wisher. We gain freedom whrn we have paid the full price for our right to live. Your careless gifts of a moment, like the meteors of an autumn night, catch fire in the depth of my being. The faith waiting in the heart of a seed promises a miracle of life which it cannot prove at once. Spring hesitates at winter's door, but the mango blossom rashly runs our to him before her time and meets her doom. The world is the ever-changing foam thet floats on the surface of a sea of silence. The two separated shores mingle their voices in a song of unfathomed tears. As a river in the sea, work finds its fulfilment in the depth of leisure. I lingered on my way till thy cherry tree lost ist bossom, but the azalea brins to me, my love, thy forgiveness. Thy shy little pomegranate bud, blushing to-day behind her veil, will burst into a passionate flower to-morrow when I am away. The clumsiness of power spoils the key, and uses the pickaxe. Birth is from the mystery of night into the grerater mystery of day. These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not to reach any destination. Migratory songs wing from my heart and seek their nests in your voice of love. The sea of danger, doubt and denial around man's little island of certainty challenges him to dare the unknown. Love punishes when it forgives, and injured beauty by its awful silence. You live alone and unrecompensed because they are afraid of your great worth. The same sun is newly born in new lands in a ring of endless dawns. God is world is ever renewed by death, a Titan's ever crushed by its own existence. The glow-worm while exploring the dust never knows that stars are in the sky. The tree is of to-day, the flower is old, it brings with it the message of the immemorial seed. Each rose that comes brings me greetings from the Rose of an eternal spring. God honours me when I work, He loves me when I sing. My love of to-day finds no home in the nest deserted by yesterday's love. The fire of pain tracse for my soul a luminous path across her sorrow. The grass survives the hill through its resurrections from countless deaths. Thou hast vanished from my reach leaving an impalpable touch in the blue of the sky, an invisible image in the wind moving among the shadows. In pity for the desolate branch spring leaves to it a kiss that fluttered in a lonely leaf. The shy shadow in the farden loves the sun in silence, Flowers guess the secret, and mile, while the leaves whisper. I leave no trace of wings in the air, but I am glad I have had my flight. The fireflies, twinkling among leaves, make the stars wonder. The mountain remains unmoved at its seeming defeat by the mist. While the rose said to the sun, "I shall ever remember thee," her petals fell to the dust. Hills are the earth's gesture of despair for the unreachable. Though the thorn in thy flower pricked me, O Beauty, I am grateful. The world knows that the few are more than the many. Let not my love be a burden on you, my friend, know that it pays itself. Dawn plays her lute before the gate of darkness, and is content to vanish when the sun comes out. Beauty is truth's smile when she beholds her own face in a perfect mirror. The dew-drop knows the sun only within its own tiny orb. Forlorn thoughts from the forsaken hives of all ages, swarming in the air, hum round my heart and seek my voice. The desert is imprisoned in the wall of its unbounded barrenness. In the thrill of little leaves I see the air's invisible dance, and in their glimmering the secret heart-beats of the sky. You are like a flowering tree, amazed when I praise you for your gifts. The earth's sacrifical fire flames up in her trees, scattering sparks in flowers. Foretsts, the clouds of earth, hold up to the sky their silence, and clouds from above come down in resonant showers. The world speaks to me in pictures, my soul answers in music. The sky tells its beads all night on the countless stars in memory of the sun. The darkness of night, like pain, is dumb, the darkness of dawn, like peace, is silent. Pride engraves his frowns in stones, loe offers her surrender in flowers. The obsequious brush curtails truth in diference to the canvas which is narrow. The hill in its longing for the far-away sky wishes to be like the cloud with its endless urge of seeking. To justify their own spilling of ink they spell the day as night. Profit smiles on goodness when the good is profitable. In its swelling pride the bubble doubts the turth of the sea, and laughs and bursts into emptiness. Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain its. My clouds, sorrowing in the dark, forget that they themselves have hidden the sun. Man discovers his own wealth when God comes to ask gifts of him. You leave your memory as a flame to my lonely lamp of separation. I came to offer thee a flower, but thou must have all my garden, It is thine. The picturea memory of light treasured by the shadow. It is easy to make faces at the sun, He is exposed by his own light in all directions. History slowly smothers its truth, but hastily struggles to revive it in the terrible penance of pain. My work is rewarded in daily wages, I wait for my final value in love. Beauty knows to say, "Enough," barbarism clamours for still more. God loves to see in me, not his servant, but himself who serves all. The darkness of night is in harmony with day, the morning of mist is discordant. In the bounteous time of roses love is wine, it is food in the famished hour when their petals are shed. An unknown flower in a strange land speaks to the poet: "Are we not of the same soil, my lover?" I am able to love my God because He gives me freedom to deny Him. My untuned strings beg for music in their anguished cry of shame. The worm thinks it strange and foolish that man does not eat his books. The clouded sky to-day bears the visior of the shadow of a divine sadness on the forehead of brooding eternity. The shade of my tree is for passers-by, its fruit for the one for whom I wait. Flushed with the glow of sunset earth seems like a ripe fruit ready to be harvested by night. Light accepts darkness for his spouse for the sake of creation. The reed waits for his master's breath, the Master goes seeking for his reed. To the blind pen the hand that writes is unreal, its writing unmeaning. The sea smites his own barren breast because he has no flowers to offer to the moon. The greed for fruit misses the flower. God in His temple of stars waits for man to bring him his lamp. The fire restrained in the tree fashions flowers. Released from bonds, the shameless flame dies in barren ashes. The sky sets no snare to capture the moon, it is her own freedom which binds her. The light that fills the sky seeks its limit in a dew-drop on the grass. Wealth is the burden of bigness, Welfare the fulness of being. The razor-blade is proud of its keenness when it sneers at the sun. The butterfly has leisure to love the lotus, not the bee busily storing honey. Child, thou bringest to my heart the babble of the wind and the water, the flower's speechless secrets, the clouds' dreams, the mute gaze of wonder of the morning sky. The rainbow among the clouds may be great but the little butterfly among the bushes is greater. The mist weaves her net round the morning, captivates him, and makes him blind. The Morning Star whispers to Dawn, "Tell me that you are only for me." "Yes," she answers, "And also only for that nameless flower." The sky remains infinitely vacant for earth there to build its heaven with dreams. Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection. Let the evening forgive the mistakes of the day and thus win peace for herself. Beauty smiles in the confinement of the bud, in the heart of a sweet incompleteness. Your flitting love lightly brushed with its wings my sun-flower and never asked if it was ready to surrender its honey. Leaves are silences around flowers which are their words. The tree bears its thousand years as one large majestic moment. My offerings are not for the temple at the end of the road, but for the wayside shrines that surprise me at every bend. Hour smile, my love, like the smell of a strange flower, is simple and inexplicable. Death laughs when the merit of the dead is exaggerated for it swells his store with more than he can claim. The sigh of the shore follows in vain the breeze that hastens the ship across the sea. Truth loves its limits, for there it meets the beautiful. Between the shores of Me and Thee there is the loud ocean, my own surging self, which I long to cross. The right to possess boasts foolishly of its right to enjoy. The rose is a great deal more than a blushing apology for the thorn. Day offers to the silence of stars his golden lute to be tuned for the endless life. The wise know how to teach, the fool how to smite. The centre is still and silent in the heart of an enternal dance of circles. The judge thinks that he is just when he compares The oil of another's lamp with the light of his own. The captive flower in the King's wreath smiles bitterly when the meadow-flower envies her. Its store of snow is the hill's own burden, its outpouring if streams is borne by all the world. Listen to the prayer of the forest for its freedom in flowers. Let your love see me even through the barrier of nearness. The spirit of work in creation is there to carry and help the spirit of play. To carry the burden of the insturment, count the cost of its material, and never to know that it is for music, is the tragedy of deaf life. Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark. I bring to thee, night, my day's empty cup, to be cleansed with thy cool darkness for a new morning's festival. The mountain fir, in its rustling, modulates the memory of its fights with the storm into a hymn of peace. God honoured me with his fight when I was rebellious, He ignored me when I was languid. The sectarina thinks that he has the sea ladled into his private pond. In the shady depth of life are the lonely nests of memories that shrink from words. Let my love find its strength in the service of day, its peace in the union of night. Life sends up in blades of grass its silent hymn of praise to the unnamed Light. The stars of night are to me the memorials of my day's faded flowers. Open thy door to that which must go, for the loss becomes unseemly when obstructed. True end is not in the reaching of the limit, but in a completion which is limitless. The shore whispers to the sea: "Write to me what thy waves struggle to say." The sea writes in foam again and again and wipes off the lines in a boisterous despair. Let the touch ofthy finger thrill my life's strings and make the music thine and mine. The inner world rounded in my life like a fruit, matured in joy and sorrow, will drop into the darkness of the orogonal soil for some further course of creation. Form is in Matter, rhythm in Force, meaning in the Person. There are seekers of wisdom and seekers of wealth, I seek thy company so that I may sing. As the tree its leaves, I shed my words on the earth, let my thoughts unuttered flower in thy silence. My faith in truth, my vision of the perfect, help thee, Master, in thy creation. All the delights that I have felt in life's fruits and flowers let me offer to thee at the end of the feast, in a perfect union of love. Some have thought deeply and explored the meaning of thy truth, and they are great; I have listened to catch the music of thy play, and I am glad. The tree is a winged spirit released from the bondage of seed, pursuing its adventure of life across the unknown. The lotus offers its beauty to the heaven, the grass its service to the earth. The sun's kiss mellows into abandonment the miserliness of the green fruit clinging to its stem. The flame met the earthen lamp in me, and what a great marvel of light! Mistakes live in the neighbourhood of truth and therefore delude us. The cloud laughed at the rainbow saying that is was an upstart gaudy in its emptiness. The rainbow calmly answered, "I am as inevitably real as tha sun himself." Let me not grope in vain in the dark but keep my mind still in the faith that the day will break and truth will appear in its simplicity. Through the silent night I hear the returning vagrant hopes of the morning knock at my heart. My new love comes bringing to me the eternal wealth of the old. The earth gazes at the moon and wonders that she sould have all her music in her smile. Day with its glare of curiosity puts the stars to flight. My mind has itstrue union with thee, O sky, at the window which is mine own, and not in the open where thou hast thy sole kingdom. Man claims God's flowers as his own when he weaves them in a garland. The buried city, laid bare to the sun of a new age, is ashamed that is has lost all its song. Like my heart's pain that has long missed its meaning, the sun's rays robed in dark hide themselves under the ground. Like my heart'spain at love's sudden touch, they change their veil at the spring's call and come out in the carnival of colours, in flowers and leaves. My life's empty flute waits for its final music like the primal darkness before the stars came out. Emancipation from the bondage of the soil is no freedom for the tree. The tapestry of life's story is woven with the threads of life's ties ever joining and breaking. Those thoughts of mine that are never captured by words perch upon my song and dance. My soul to-night loses itself in the silent heart of a tree standing alone among the whispers of immensity. Pearl shells cast up by the sea on death's barren beach, a magnificent wastefulness of creative life. The sunlight opens for me the word's gate, love's light its terasure. My life like the reed with ist stops, has its play od colours through the gaps in its hopes and gains. Let not my thanks to thee rob my silence of its fuller homage. Life's aspirations come in the guise of children. The faded flower sighs that the spring has vanished for ever. In my life's garden my wealth has been of the shadows and lights that are never gathered and stored. The fruit that I Have gained for ever is thet which thou hast accepted. The jasmine knows the sun to be her brother in the heaven. Light is young, the ancient light; shadows are of the moment, they are born old. I feel that the ferry of my songs at the day's end will brong me across to the other shore from where I shall see. The butterfly flitting from flower to flower ever remains mine, I lose the one that is netted by me. Your voice, free bird, reaches my sleeping nest, and my drowsy wings dream of a voyage to the light above the clouds. I miss the meaning of my own part in the play of life because I know not of the parts that others play. The flower sheds all its petals and finds the fruit. I leave my songs behind me to the bloom of the ever-returning honeysuckles and the joy of the wind from the south. Dead leaves when they lose themselves in soil take part in the life of the forest. The mind ever seeks its words from its sounds and silence as the sky from its darkness and light. The unseen dark plays on his flute and the rhythm of light eddies into stars and suns, into thoughts and reams. My songs are to sing that I have loved Thy singing. When the voice of the Silent touches my words I know him and therefore I know myself. My last salutations are to them who knew me imperfect and loved me. Love's gift cannot be given, it waits to be accepted. When death comes and whispers to me, "Thy days are ended," let me say to him, "I have lived in love and not in mere time." He will ask, "Will thy songs remain?" I shall say, "I know not, but this I know that often when I sang I found my eternity." "Let me light my lamp," say the star, 'and never debate if it will help to remove the darkness." Before the end of my journey may I reach within myself the one which is the all, leaving the outer shell to float away with the drifting multitude upon the current of chance and change. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Fireflies ,

870:Ballad Of Jesus Of Nazareth I. It matters not what place he drew At first life's mortal breath, Some say it was in Bethlehem, And some in Nazareth. But shame and sorrow were his lot And shameful was his death. The angels sang, and o'er the barn Wherein the infant lay, They hung a star, for they foresaw The sad world's better day, But well God knew what thyme and rue Were planted by his way. The children of the Pharisees In hymn and orison Worshipped the prophets, whom their sires To cruel death had done, And said, 'had we been there their death We had not looked upon.' While the star shone the angels saw The tombs these children built For those the world had driven out, And smitten to the hilt, God knew these wretched sons would bear The self-same bloody guilt. Always had he who strives for men But done some other thing, If he had not led a hermit life, Or had not had his fling, We would have followed him, they say, And made him lord and King. For John was clothed in camel's hair And lived among the brutes; 26 But Jesus fared where the feast was spread To the sound of shawms and lutes, Where gathered knaves and publicans And hapless prostitutes. Like children in the market place Who sullen sat and heard, With John they would not mourn, nor yet Rejoice at Jesus' word; Had Jesus mourned, or John rejoiced, He had been King and lord. II. From Bethlehem until the day He came up to the feast We hear no word, we only know In wisdom he increased, We know the marvelous boy did awe The Pharisee and priest. For wearied men wake to admire A genius in the bud; Before the passion of the world Flows through him like a flood; Ere he becomes a scourge to those Who drink of mankind's blood. Perhaps in him they saw an arm To keep the people still; And fool the meek and slay the weak And give the King his will; And put a wall for armZd men 'Round every pleasant hill. And this is why in after years The Galilean wept; The cup of youth was sweet with truth But a green worm in it crept; And that was dullness clothed in power, And hate which never slept. 27 Through twenty years he drove the plane, And shaped with ax and saw; And dreamed upon the Hebrew writ Unto a day of awe, When he felt the world fit to his grasp As by a mighty law. He looked upon the sunny sky, And 'round the flowering earth; He heard the poor man's groan of woe, And the prince's song of mirth; Then Jesus vowed the life of man Should have another birth. And this is why the Son of Man Wept when he knew the loss, The toil and sacrifice to cleanse A little earthly dross; And that a god to save twelve men Must die upon the cross. III. 'Twas on a pleasant day in June Beneath an azure sky That 'round him stood the multitude And saw within his eye The light that from nor sun nor star Ever was known to fly. And some came out to scoff and laugh, And some to lay a snare; The rhetorician gaped to see: The learnZd carpenter. The money changer, judge and priest, And statesman all were there. Some thought the Galilean mad; Some asked, is he sincere? Some said he played the demagogue To gain the people's ear, And raise a foe against the law 28 That lawful men should fear. But all the while did C¾sar's might Grow big with blood and lust; And no one brooked his tyrant arm, For the statesman said the crust That paupers gnaw is by the law, And that the law is just. From hunger's hovel, from the streets; From horror's blackened niche Earth's mourners came and hands were stretched To touch him from the ditch. Then rose a Scribe and said he turned The poor against the rich. And those who hated C¾sar's rule, Albeit sowed the lie That Jesus stirred sedition up That he might profit by A revolution, which should clothe Himself in monarchy. Through twice a thousand years the world Has missed the words he taught; To forms and creeds and empty show Christ never gave a thought, But wrongs that men do unto men They were the wrongs he fought. He did not eat with washen hands, Nor keep the Sabbath day; He did not to the Synagogue Repair to sing and pray. Nor for to-morrow take a thought, To mar life's pleasant way. He saw that all of human woe Takes root in hate and greed; He saw until men love their kind The human heart must bleed. And that nor hymn nor sacrifice 29 Meets any human need. And this is why he scourged the rich And lashed the Pharisee, And stripped from every pious face The mask hypocrisy; And so laced Mary Magdalene, Caught in adultery. And this is why with grievous fire He smote the lawyer's lore. And every wile of cunning guile Which made the burden more Upon the backs of wretched men, Who heavy burdens bore. Therefore when that the hour was come For him to die, they blent Of many things a lying charge, But at last the argument They killed him with was that he stirred The people's discontent. From thence the world has gone its way Of this truth, deaf and blind, And every man who struck the law Has felt the halter bind, Until his words were choked in death Uttered for human kind. Now did the dreams of Galilee Awake as from a sleep, Fly up from earth, and Life unmasked Life's promise did not keep, And Jesus saw the face of Life, And all who see it weep. God's spirit fled the damnZd earth And left the earth forlorn. No more did Jesus walk the fields, And pluck the ripened corn; Nor muse beside the silent sea, 30 Upon a summer's morn. Before the heart of Christ was pierced With agony divine, He sat him down in a merry mood With loving friends to dine. And once in Cana he did turn The water into wine. Now put from shore, swept far to sea His shallop caught the tide, Arched o'er him was eternity 'Twixt starless wastes and wide. God's spirit seemed withdrawn that once Walked hourly at his side. IV. Gladly the common people heard And called upon his name. But yet he knew what they would do, Christ Jesus knew their frame, And that he should be left alone Upon a day of shame. Sharper than thorns upon the brow, Or nails spiked through the hand Is when the people fly for fear And cannot understand; And let their saviors die the death As creatures contraband. For wrongs that flourish by a lie Are hard enough to bear; But wrongs that take their root in truth Shade every brow with care; And this is why Gethsemane Was shadowed with despair. In dark and drear Gethsemane Hell's devils laughed and raved, When Jesus torn by fear and doubt 31 Reprieve from sorrow craved; For who would lose his life, unless Another's life he saved? V. In youth when all the world appeared As fresh as any flower, Satan besought the Son of Man, New-clothed in godly power, And took him to behold the world Upon a lofty tower. To every man of god-like might Comes Satan once to give The crown, the crosier and the sword And bid him laugh and live, While Hope hides in the wilderness, A hunted fugitive. But neither gold nor kingly crown Tempted the Son of Man He hoped as many souls have hoped, Ever since time began, That love itself can overcome, Hate's foul leviathan Some fix their faith to heaven's grace, And some to saintly bones; Some think that water doth contain A virtue which atones; And some believe that men are saved By penitential groans. But of all faith that ever fired A spirit with its glow That is supreme which thinks that truth No power can overthrow; And he believes who takes and cleaves To the thorny way of woe! For life is sweet, and sweet it is 32 With jeweled sandals shod To trip where happy blossoms shoot Up from the fragrant sod; And what sustains the souls that pass Alway beneath the rod? The book of worldly lore he closed And bound it with a hasp; And in the hour of danger came No king with friendly clasp. It was the hand of love against The anger of the asp. Since Jesus died the lust of kings Has linked the cross and crown; And slaughtered millions whom to save From heaven he came down; And all to tame the mind of man To his divine renown. But whether he were man or god This thing at least is true; He hated with a lordly hate The Gentile and the Jew, Who robbed the poor and wronged the weak, And kept the widow's due. And those all clothed in raiment soft, Who in kings' houses dwell; And those who compass sea and land Their proselytes to swell; And when they make one he is made Two-fold the child of hell. And those who tithe of anise give, But sharpen beak and claw; And those who plait the web of hate The heart of man to flaw; And hungry lawyers who pile up The burdens of the law. I wonder not they slew the Christ 33 And put upon his brow The cruel crown of thorns, I know The world would do it now; And none shall live who on himself Shall take the self-same vow. And none shall live who tries to balk The heavy hand of greed; And he who hopes for human help Against his hour of need Will find the souls he tried to save Ready to make him bleed. For he who flays the hypocrite, And scourges with a thong The money changer, soon will find The money changer strong; And even the people will incline To think his mission wrong. And pious souls will say he is At best a castaway; Some will remember he blasphemed And broke the Sabbath day. And the coward friend will fool his heart And then he will betray. At last the Scribe and Pharisee No longer could abide The tumult which his words stirred up In every country side; And so they made a sign, which meant He must be crucified. For him no sword was raised, no king Came forward for his sake; And every son of mammon laughed To see death overtake The fool who fastened to the truth And made his life the stake. VI. 34 Upon a day when Jesus' soul Like an angel's voice did quire, The heart of all the people burned With a white and holy fire; And they did sweep to make him king Over the world's empire. His kingdom was not of this world, But this they would not own; And he to save themselves did go To a mountain place alone, And there did pray that holy Truth Might find somewhere a throne. When Henry was by Francis sought To make him emperor, They walked upon a cloth of gold, As sovereign lords of war. And trumpets blew and banners flew About the royal car. When Caesar back to Rome returned With all the world subdued, The soldiers and the priests did shout, And cried the multitude; For he had slain his country's foes, And drenched their land with blood. But all the triumph of the Christ That ever came to pass Was when he rode amidst a mob Upon a borrowed ass; And this is all the worldly pomp A genius ever has. His cloth of gold were branches cut And strewn upon the ground; And every money-changer laughed, And the judges looked and frowned; But no one saw a flag unfurled, Or heard a bugle sound. 35 To-day whene'er a coxcomb king Visits a foreign shore, The simple people deck themselves And all the cannon roar. But it would not do such grace to show To a soul of lordly lore. VII. Of all sad suppers ever spread For broken hearts to eat, That was the saddest where the Christ Did serve the bread and meat; And, ere he served them, washed with care Each worn disciple's feet. And who would hold in memory That supper, let him call His loved friends about his board And serve them one and all; And with a loving spirit crown The simple festival. For this I hold to be the truth, And Jesus said the same; That men who meet as brothers, they Are gathered in his name; And only for its evil deeds A soul he will disclaim. Through climes of sun and climes of snow Full many a wretched knight, The holy grail, without avail Did make his life's delight, And lo! the thing it symbolized Was ever in their sight. The cup whereof Christ Jesus drank Was wholly without grace; And whether made of stone or wood Was lost or broke apace. 36 And no one thought to keep a cup While looking in his face. They kept no cup, their only thought Was for the morrow morn. And as he passed the wine and bread With pallid hands and worn, Peter did swear he would not leave His stricken lord forlorn. John, the beloved, on his breast, Wept while the hour did pass. Judas did groan when Jesus struck Behind his soul's arras. All trembled for the bitter hate, And power of Caiaphas. But for that simple, farewell feast In Holland, France and Spain, Ten million men as true as John Were racked and burnt and slain, As if they held remembrance of The farewell feast of Cain. Had Jesus known what fratricide Over his words would fall I think he would have gone straightway Up to the judgment hall, And never broken bread or drunk The cup his friends withal. Though a good tree brings forth good fruit, What good bears naught but good? What sum of saintly life contains No grain of devil's food? What purest truth when past its youth Is not its own falsehood? And every rod wherewith the wise Have cleft each barrier sea, That men might walk across and reach The land of liberty, 37 In hands of kings were snakes whose stings Were worse than slavery. VIII. The rulers thought it best to wait Till Jesus were alone; They had forgot the coward crowd Never protects its own, But leaves its leaders to the whim Of wrong upon a throne. Had malcontents for Pilate sought To do a treasonous thing, Ten thousand loyal fishermen Had made the traitors swing; For they are taught they cannot live Unless they have a king. But soldiers came with swords and staves To sieze one helpless man. And only Peter had a sword To smite the craven clan And only Peter stood his ground, And all the people ran. I wish, since Jesus by the world Is held to be divine, That he had lived to give to men A perfect anodyne, And raise to human liberty A world compelling shrine. A shrine 'round which should lie to-day The world's discarded crowns, And swords and guns and gilded gawds And monkish beads and gowns; But, as it is, upon these things, They say, he never frowns. And only by an argument Can any being show 38 That Jesus would chop out and burn These monstrous roots of woe. And so these roots are living yet, And still the roots do grow. Unto this day in divers lands Pilate is singled out For curses that he did not save Christ from the rabble's shout; But they forget he was a judge, And had a judge's doubt. The sickly fear of the rulers' sneer Clutches the judge's heart. And to hide behind a hoary lie Is the judge's highest art; And the judgment hall has a door that leads To the room of the money mart. The laws wherewith men murder men Are dark with skeptic slime; They are not stars that point the way To truth in every clime. Wherefore was Jesus crucified, For what was not a crime. When Pilate questioned what is truth He did not mean to jest; He meant to show when life's at stake How difficult the quest Through hollow rules and empty forms To truth's ingenuous test. And Pilate might have pardoned him Had not the lawyers said, The Galilean strove to put A crown upon his head. And how could Jesus be a king, Who blood had never shed? The trial of Jesus long ago Was cursed in solemn rhyme; 39 For the judgment hall was but farcical And the trial a pantomime. Save that it led to a felon's death For what was not a crime. The common people on that day Had enough black-bread to eat. And what to them was another's woe Before the judgment seat? They were content that day to keep From pit-falls their own feet. Had Herod stood, whate'er the charge, Before the people's bar The sophists would have cut it down With reason's scimitar, And called the peasants to enforce The judgment near and far. And had they failed to save their king From every foul mischance The banded Anarchs of the world Had held them in durance, As afterward the crownZd heads Did punish recreant France. IX. So it fell out amid the rout Of captain, lord and priest, They bound his hands with felon bands And they flogged him like a beast. And Pilate washed his hands, and then For them a thief released. And only women solaced him, And one mad courtesan, 'Save thou thyself,' the elders cried, 'Who came to rescue man.' Where were the common people then? The common people ran. 40 Between two thieves upon a hill The terror to proclaim They racked his body on a cross Till his thirst was like a flame; And they mocked his woe and they wagged their heads, And they spat upon his name. God thought a picture like to this, Fire-limned against the sky, Once seen, would never fade away From the world's careless eye; And that the lesson that it taught No soul could wander by. God thought the shadow of this cross, Athwart the mad world's ken, Would stay with shame the hands that kill The men who die for men, And that no soul for love of truth Need ever die again. Many a man the valley of death With fearless step hath trod; The prophet is a phoenix soul, And the wretch is a sullen clod. But Jesus in his death became Liker unto a god Liker unto a god he grew Who walked through heaven and hell; He died as he forgave the mob That 'round the cross did yell. They knew not what they did, and this Jesus, the god, knew well. For hate is spawned of ignorance And ignorance of hate. And all the fangZd shapes that creep From their incestuous state Enter the gardens of the world, And cursZd keep their fate. 41 Near Gadara did Jesus drive By an occult power and sign The unclean devils from a loon Into a herd of swine. But the swinish devils entered the Scribes, And slew a soul divine. Christ healed the blind, but could not ope The eyes of ignorance, Nor turn to wands of peace and love Hate's bloody sword and lance; But the swinish fiends who took his life Received a pardoning glance. And Jesus raised the dead to life, And he cured the lame and halt But he could not heal a hateful soul, And keep it free from fault; Nor bring the savour back again To the world's trampled salt. X. After his death the rulers slept, And the judges were at ease; For they had killed a rebel soul And strewed his devotees; But the imp of time is a thing perverse, And laughs at men's decrees. For it is vain to kill a man, His life to stigmatize; Herein the wisdom of the world Is folly to the wise; For those the world doth kill, the world Will surely canonize. To look upon a lovZd face By the Gorgon Death made stone, Will make the heart leap up with fear And the soul with sorrow groan; 42 Alas! who knows what thing he knew Ere the light of life was flown? Who knows what tears did start to well, But were frozen at their source? Who knows his ashen grief who felt That iron hand of force? Or what black thing he saw before He grew a lifeless corse? And, much of hope, but more of woe Falls with the chastening rod, As the living think of an orphan soul That the spectral ways may trod, And how that orphan soul must cry In its new world after God. So the fisherman did sigh at night, For a dream-face haunted them. By day they hid as branded men Within Jerusalem. And the common people, safe at home, Did breathe a requiem. But where he lay, one fearless soul, Mad Magdalene, from whom Christ cast the seven devils out, Came in the morning's gloom, And thence arose the burning faith That Christ rose from the tomb But all do know the mind of man Mixes the false and true, And deifies each Son of God That ever hatred slew; And weaves him magic tales to tell Of what the man could do. The legends grow, as grow they must The wonder to equip. And ere they write the legends out, They pass from lip to lip, 43 Till a simple life becomes a theme For studied scholarship. But this I know that after Christ Did die on Calvary, He never more did preach to men, Nor scourge the Pharisee; Else it was vain to still his voice And nail him to a tree. Nor scribe nor priest were ever more By him disquieted. And little did it mean to them That he rose from the dead. For greed can sleep when it has killed The thing that it did dread. And never a king or satrap knew That Christ the tomb had rent; He might have lived a second life, With every lord's consent, If never more he sought to stir The people's discontent. He might have risen from the dead And gone to Galilee; And there paced out a hundred years In a sorrowed revery, If he but never preached again The creed humanity. XI. To distant lands did Jesus' words, Like sparks that burst in flame, Fly forth to light the ways of dole, And blind the eyes of shame, Till subtle kings, to staunch their wounds, Did conjure with his name. When kings did pilfer Jesus' might, His words of love were turned 44 To swords and goads and heavy loads, And rods and brands that burned; And never had the world before So piteously mourned. Of peasant Mary they did make A statue all of gold; And placed a crown upon her head With jewels manifold. And Jesus' words were strained and drawn This horror to uphold. They robed a rebel royally, And placed within his hand A scepter, that himself should be One of their murderous band. And it is tragical that men Can never understand. For Herod crowned the carpenter With woven thorns of hate. And put a reed within his hand A king to imitate. Now kings have made a rebel soul The patron of the state. And kingcraft never hatched a lie, This falsehood to surpass. For Jesus' only hour of pomp Was what a genius has; He rode amidst a howling mob Upon a borrowed ass. Though his cloth of gold were branches cut And strewed upon the ground; And though the money-changers laughed, While the judges looked and frowned; To-day for him the flag is flown, And all the bugles sound. To-day where'er the treacherous sword Takes lord-ship in the world, 45 The bloody rag they call the flag, In his name is unfurled. And round the standard of the cross Is greed, the python, curled. For wrongs that have the show of truth Are hard enough to bear, But wrongs that flourish by a lie, Shade wisdom's brow with care. And still in dark Gethsemane There lurks the fiend Despair. And still in drear Gethsemane, Hell's devils laugh and rave, Because the Prince of Peace hath failed The wayward world to save. For every word he spoke is made A shackle to enslave. Man's wingd hopes are white at dawn, But the hand of malice smuts. O, angel voices drowned and lost Amid the growl of guts! O spirit hands that strain to draw A dead world from the ruts! God made a stage of Palestine, And the drama played was Life; And the Eye of Heaven sat and watched The true and false at strife; While a masque o' the World did play the pimp, And take a whore to wife. I wonder not they slew the Christ, And put upon his brow A mocking crown of thorns, I know The world would do it now; And none shall live who on himself Shall take the self-same vow. And none shall live who tries to balk The heavy hand of greed. 46 And who betakes him to the task, That heart will surely bleed. But a little truth, somehow is saved Out of each dead man's creed. Out of the life of him who scourged The Scribe and Pharisee, A willing world can take to heart The creed humanity; And all the wonder tales of Christ Are naught to you and me. And it matters not what place he drew, At first life's mortal breath, Nor how it was his spirit rose And triumphed over death, But good it is to hear and do The word that Jesus saith. Until the perfect truth shall lie Treasured and set apart; One whole, harmonious truth to set A seal upon each heart; And none may ever from that truth In any wise depart. ~ Edgar Lee Masters,

871:VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADY, EMILIA V---, NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF --- L'anima amante si slancia fuori del creato, e si crea nell' infinito un Mondo tutto per essa, diverso assai da questo oscuro e pauroso baratro. ~Her own words. My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning, Of such hard matter dost thou entertain; Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring Thee to base company (as chance may do), Quite unaware of what thou dost contain, I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again, My last delight! tell them that they are dull, And bid them own that thou art beautiful. EPIPSYCHIDION. Sweet Spirit! Sister of that orphan one, Whose empire is the name thou weepest on, In my heart's temple I suspend to thee These votive wreaths of withered memory. Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow cage, Pourest such music, that it might assuage The ruggd hearts of those who prisoned thee, Were they not deaf to all sweet melody; This song shall be thy rose: its petals pale Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightingale! But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom, And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom. High, spirit-wingd Heart! who dost for ever Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavour, Till those bright plumes of thought, in which arrayed It over-soared this low and worldly shade, Lie shattered; and thy panting, wounded breast Stains with dear blood its unmaternal nest! I weep vain tears: blood would less bitter be, Yet poured forth gladlier, could it profit thee. Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human, Veiling beneath that radiant form of Woman All that is insupportable in thee Of light, and love, and immortality! Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse! Veiled Glory of this lampless Universe! Thou Moon beyond the clouds! Thou living Form Among the Dead! Thou Star above the Storm! Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror! Thou Harmony of Nature's art! Thou Mirror In whom, as in the splendour of the Sun, All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on! Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee now Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustomed glow; I pray thee that thou blot from this sad song All of its much mortality and wrong, With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through, Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy: Then smile on it, so that it may not die. I never thought before my death to see Youth's vision thus made perfect. Emily, I love thee; though the world by no thin name Will hide that love from its unvalued shame. Would we two had been twins of the same mother! Or, that the name my heart lent to another Could be a sister's bond for her and thee, Blending two beams of one eternity! Yet were one lawful and the other true, These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due, How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me! I am not thine: I am a part of thee. Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burned its wings Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, Young Love should teach Time, in his own gray style, All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, A lovely soul formed to be blessed and bless? A well of sealed and secret happiness, Whose waters like blithe light and music are, Vanquishing dissonance and gloom? A Star Which moves not in the moving heavens, alone? A Smile amid dark frowns? a gentle tone Amid rude voices? a belovd light? A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight? A Lute, which those whom Love has taught to play Make music on, to soothe the roughest day And lull fond Grief asleep? a buried treasure? A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure? A violet-shrouded grave of Woe?I measure The world of fancies, seeking one like thee, And findalas! mine own infirmity. She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way, And lured me towards sweet Death; as Night by Day, Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope, Led into light, life, peace. An antelope, In the suspended impulse of its lightness, Were less aethereally light: the brightness Of her divinest presence trembles through Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew Embodied in the windless heaven of June Amid the splendour-wingd stars, the Moon Burns, inextinguishably beautiful: And from her lips, as from a hyacinth full Of honey-dew, a liquid murmur drops, Killing the sense with passion; sweet as stops Of planetary music heard in trance. In her mild lights the starry spirits dance, The sunbeams of those wells which ever leap Under the lightnings of the soultoo deep For the brief fathom-line of thought or sense. The glory of her being, issuing thence, Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a warm shade Of unentangled intermixture, made By Love, of light and motion: one intense Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence, Whose flowing outlines mingle in their flowing, Around her cheeks and utmost fingers glowing With the unintermitted blood, which there Quivers, (as in a fleece of snow-like air The crimson pulse of living morning quiver,) Continuously prolonged, and ending never, Till they are lost, and in that Beauty furled Which penetrates and clasps and fills the world; Scarce visible from extreme loveliness. Warm fragrance seems to fall from her light dress And her loose hair; and where some heavy tress The air of her own speed has disentwined, The sweetness seems to satiate the faint wind; And in the soul a wild odour is felt, Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that melt Into the bosom of a frozen bud. See where she stands! a mortal shape indued With love and life and light and deity, And motion which may change but cannot die; An image of some bright Eternity; A shadow of some golden dream; a Splendour Leaving the third sphere pilotless; a tender Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love Under whose motions life's dull billows move; A Metaphor of Spring and Youth and Morning; A Vision like incarnate April, warning, With smiles and tears, Frost the Anatomy Into his summer grave.             Ah, woe is me! What have I dared? where am I lifted? how Shall I descend, and perish not? I know That Love makes all things equal: I have heard By mine own heart this joyous truth averred: The spirit of the worm beneath the sod In love and worship, blends itself with God. Spouse! Sister! Angel! Pilot of the Fate Whose course has been so starless! O too late Belovd! O too soon adored, by me! For in the fields of Immortality My spirit should at first have worshipped thine, A divine presence in a place divine; Or should have moved beside it on this earth, A shadow of that substance, from its birth; But not as now:I love thee; yes, I feel That on the fountain of my heart a seal Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright For thee, since in those tears thou hast delight. Weare we not formed, as notes of music are, For one another, though dissimilar; Such difference without discord, as can make Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake As trembling leaves in a continuous air? Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are wrecked. I never was attached to that great sect, Whose doctrine is, that each one should select Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend To cold oblivion, though it is in the code Of modern morals, and the beaten road Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread, Who travel to their home among the dead By the broad highway of the world, and so With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe, The dreariest and the longest journey go. True Love in this differs from gold and clay, That to divide is not to take away. Love is like understanding, that grows bright, Gazing on many truths; 'tis like thy light, Imagination! which from earth and sky, And from the depths of human fantasy, As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, fills The Universe with glorious beams, and kills Error, the worm, with many a sun-like arrow Of its reverberated lightning. Narrow The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, The life that wears, the spirit that creates One object, and one form, and builds thereby A sepulchre for its eternity. Mind from its object differs most in this: Evil from good; misery from happiness; The baser from the nobler; the impure And frail, from what is clear and must endure. If you divide suffering and dross, you may Diminish till it is consumed away; If you divide pleasure and love and thought, Each part exceeds the whole; and we know not How much, while any yet remains unshared, Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow spared: This truth is that deep well, whence sages draw The unenvied light of hope; the eternal law By which those live, to whom this world of life Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife Tills for the promise of a later birth The wilderness of this Elysian earth. There was a Being whom my spirit oft Met on its visioned wanderings, far aloft, In the clear golden prime of my youth's dawn, Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn, Amid the enchanted mountains, and the caves Of divine sleep, and on the air-like waves Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous floor Paved her light steps;on an imagined shore, Under the gray beak of some promontory She met me, robed in such exceeding glory, That I beheld her not. In solitudes Her voice came to me through the whispering woods, And from the fountains, and the odours deep Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring in their sleep Of the sweet kisses which had lulled them there, Breathed but of her to the enamoured air; And from the breezes whether low or loud, And from the rain of every passing cloud, And from the singing of the summer-birds, And from all sounds, all silence. In the words Of antique verse and high romance, -- in form, Sound, colour -- in whatever checks that Storm Which with the shattered present chokes the past; And in that best philosophy, whose taste Makes this cold common hell, our life, a doom As glorious as a fiery martyrdom; Her Spirit was the harmony of truth.-- Then, from the caverns of my dreamy youth I sprang, as one sandalled with plumes of fire, And towards the lodestar of my one desire, I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose flight Is as a dead leaf's in the owlet light, When it would seek in Hesper's setting sphere A radiant death, a fiery sepulchre, As if it were a lamp of earthly flame. But She, whom prayers or tears then could not tame, Passed, like a God throned on a wingd planet, Whose burning plumes to tenfold swiftness fan it, Into the dreary cone of our life's shade; And as a man with mighty loss dismayed, I would have followed, though the grave between Yawned like a gulf whose spectres are unseen: When a voice said:--'O thou of hearts the weakest, The phantom is beside thee whom thou seekest.' Then I'Where?'--the world's echo answered 'where?' And in that silence, and in my despair, I questioned every tongueless wind that flew Over my tower of mourning, if it knew Whither 'twas fled, this soul out of my soul; And murmured names and spells which have control Over the sightless tyrants of our fate; But neither prayer nor verse could dissipate The night which closed on her; nor uncreate That world within this Chaos, mine and me, Of which she was the veiled Divinity, The world I say of thoughts that worshipped her: And therefore I went forth, with hope and fear And every gentle passion sick to death, Feeding my course with expectation's breath, Into the wintry forest of our life; And struggling through its error with vain strife, And stumbling in my weakness and my haste, And half bewildered by new forms, I passed, Seeking among those untaught foresters If I could find one form resembling hers, In which she might have masked herself from me. There,One, whose voice was venomed melody Sate by a well, under blue nightshade bowers; The breath of her false mouth was like faint flowers, Her touch was as electric poison,flame Out of her looks into my vitals came, And from her living cheeks and bosom flew A killing air, which pierced like honey-dew Into the core of my green heart, and lay Upon its leaves; until, as hair grown gray O'er a young brow, they hid its unblown prime With ruins of unseasonable time. In many mortal forms I rashly sought The shadow of that idol of my thought. And some were fairbut beauty dies away: Others were wisebut honeyed words betray: And One was trueoh! why not true to me? Then, as a hunted deer that could not flee, I turned upon my thoughts, and stood at bay, Wounded and weak and panting; the cold day Trembled, for pity of my strife and pain. When, like a noonday dawn, there shone again Deliverance. One stood on my path who seemed As like the glorious shape which I had dreamed As is the Moon, whose changes ever run Into themselves, to the eternal Sun; The cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven's bright isles, Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles, That wandering shrine of soft yet icy flame Which ever is transformed, yet still the same, And warms not but illumines. Young and fair As the descended Spirit of that sphere, She hid me, as the Moon may hide the night From its own darkness, until all was bright Between the Heaven and Earth of my calm mind, And, as a cloud charioted by the wind, She led me to a cave in that wild place, And sate beside me, with her downward face Illumining my slumbers, like the Moon Waxing and waning o'er Endymion. And I was laid asleep, spirit and limb, And all my being became bright or dim As the Moon's image in a summer sea, According as she smiled or frowned on me; And there I lay, within a chaste cold bed: Alas, I then was nor alive nor dead: For at her silver voice came Death and Life, Unmindful each of their accustomed strife, Masked like twin babes, a sister and a brother, The wandering hopes of one abandoned mother, And through the cavern without wings they flew, And cried 'Away, he is not of our crew.' I wept, and though it be a dream, I weep. What storms then shook the ocean of my sleep, Blotting that Moon, whose pale and waning lips Then shrank as in the sickness of eclipse; And how my soul was as a lampless sea, And who was then its Tempest; and when She, The Planet of that hour, was quenched, what frost Crept o'er those waters, till from coast to coast The moving billows of my being fell Into a death of ice, immovable; And thenwhat earthquakes made it gape and split, The white Moon smiling all the while on it, These words conceal:If not, each word would be The key of staunchless tears. Weep not for me! At length, into the obscure Forest came The Vision I had sought through grief and shame. Athwart that wintry wilderness of thorns Flashed from her motion splendour like the Morn's, And from her presence life was radiated Through the gray earth and branches bare and dead; So that her way was paved, and roofed above With flowers as soft as thoughts of budding love; And music from her respiration spread Like light,all other sounds were penetrated By the small, still, sweet spirit of that sound, So that the savage winds hung mute around; And odours warm and fresh fell from her hair Dissolving the dull cold in the frore air: Soft as an Incarnation of the Sun, When light is changed to love, this glorious One Floated into the cavern where I lay, And called my Spirit, and the dreaming clay Was lifted by the thing that dreamed below As smoke by fire, and in her beauty's glow I stood, and felt the dawn of my long night Was penetrating me with living light: I knew it was the Vision veiled from me So many years -- that it was Emily. Twin Spheres of light who rule this passive Earth, This world of love, this me; and into birth Awaken all its fruits and flowers, and dart Magnetic might into its central heart; And lift its billows and its mists, and guide By everlasting laws, each wind and tide To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave; And lull its storms, each in the craggy grave Which was its cradle, luring to faint bowers The armies of the rainbow-wingd showers; And, as those married lights, which from the towers Of Heaven look forth and fold the wandering globe In liquid sleep and splendour, as a robe; And all their many-mingled influence blend, If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet end; So ye, bright regents, with alternate sway Govern my sphere of being, night and day! Thou, not disdaining even a borrowed might; Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light; And, through the shadow of the seasons three, From Spring to Autumn's sere maturity, Light it into the Winter of the tomb, Where it may ripen to a brighter bloom. Thou too, O Comet beautiful and fierce, Who drew the heart of this frail Universe Towards thine own; till, wrecked in that convulsion, Alternating attraction and repulsion, Thine went astray and that was rent in twain; Oh, float into our azure heaven again! Be there Love's folding-star at thy return; The living Sun will feed thee from its urn Of golden fire; the Moon will veil her horn In thy last smiles; adoring Even and Morn Will worship thee with incense of calm breath And lights and shadows; as the star of Death And Birth is worshipped by those sisters wild Called Hope and Fearupon the heart are piled Their offerings,of this sacrifice divine A World shall be the altar.                Lady mine, Scorn not these flowers of thought, the fading birth Which from its heart of hearts that plant puts forth Whose fruit, made perfect by thy sunny eyes, Will be as of the trees of Paradise. The day is come, and thou wilt fly with me. To whatsoe'er of dull mortality Is mine, remain a vestal sister still; To the intense, the deep, the imperishable, Not mine but me, henceforth be thou united Even as a bride, delighting and delighted. The hour is come:the destined Star has risen Which shall descend upon a vacant prison. The walls are high, the gates are strong, thick set The sentinelsbut true Love never yet Was thus constrained: it overleaps all fence: Like lightning, with invisible violence Piercing its continents; like Heaven's free breath, Which he who grasps can hold not; liker Death, Who rides upon a thought, and makes his way Through temple, tower, and palace, and the array Of arms: more strength has Love than he or they; For it can burst his charnel, and make free The limbs in chains, the heart in agony, The soul in dust and chaos.                Emily, A ship is floating in the harbour now, A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's brow; There is a path on the sea's azure floor, No keel has ever ploughed that path before; The halcyons brood around the foamless isles; The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its wiles; The merry mariners are bold and free: Say, my heart's sister, wilt thou sail with me? Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest Is a far Eden of the purple East; And we between her wings will sit, while Night, And Day, and Storm, and Calm, pursue their flight, Our ministers, along the boundless Sea, Treading each other's heels, unheededly. It is an isle under Ionian skies, Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise, And, for the harbours are not safe and good, This land would have remained a solitude But for some pastoral people native there, Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden air Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, Simple and spirited; innocent and bold. The blue Aegean girds this chosen home, With ever-changing sound and light and foam, Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns hoar; And all the winds wandering along the shore Undulate with the undulating tide: There are thick woods where sylvan forms abide; And many a fountain, rivulet, and pond, As clear as elemental diamond, Or serene morning air; and far beyond, The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer (Which the rough shepherd treads but once a year) Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, and halls Built round with ivy, which the waterfalls Illumining, with sound that never fails Accompany the noonday nightingales; And all the place is peopled with sweet airs; The light clear element which the isle wears Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers, Which floats like mist laden with unseen showers, And falls upon the eyelids like faint sleep; And from the moss violets and jonquils peep, And dart their arrowy odour through the brain Till you might faint with that delicious pain. And every motion, odour, beam, and tone, With that deep music is in unison: Which is a soul within the soulthey seem Like echoes of an antenatal dream. It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, and Sea, Cradled, and hung in clear tranquillity; Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer, Washed by the soft blue Oceans of young air. It is a favoured place. Famine or Blight, Pestilence, War and Earthquake, never light Upon its mountain-peaks; blind vultures, they Sail onward far upon their fatal way: The wingd storms, chanting their thunder-psalm To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, From which its fields and woods ever renew Their green and golden immortality. And from the sea there rise, and from the sky There fall, clear exhalations, soft and bright, Veil after veil, each hiding some delight, Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw aside, Till the isle's beauty, like a naked bride Glowing at once with love and loveliness, Blushes and trembles at its own excess: Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less Burns in the heart of this delicious isle, An atom of th'Eternal, whose own smile Unfolds itself, and may be felt, not seen O'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and forests green, Filling their bare and void interstices. But the chief marvel of the wilderness Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or how None of the rustic island-people know: 'Tis not a tower of strength, though with its height It overtops the woods; but, for delight, Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere crime Had been invented, in the world's young prime, Reared it, a wonder of that simple time, An envy of the isles, a pleasure-house Made sacred to his sister and his spouse. It scarce seems now a wreck of human art, But, as it were Titanic; in the heart Of Earth having assumed its form, then grown Out of the mountains, from the living stone, Lifting itself in caverns light and high: For all the antique and learnd imagery Has been erased, and in the place of it The ivy and the wild-vine interknit The volumes of their many-twining stems; Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems The lampless halls, and when they fade, the sky Peeps through their winter-woof of tracery With moonlight patches, or star atoms keen, Or fragments of the day's intense serene; Working mosaic on their Parian floors. And, day and night, aloof, from the high towers And terraces, the Earth and Ocean seem To sleep in one another's arms, and dream Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that we Read in their smiles, and call reality. This isle and house are mine, and I have vowed Thee to be lady of the solitude. And I have fitted up some chambers there Looking towards the golden Eastern air, And level with the living winds, which flow Like waves above the living waves below. I have sent books and music there, and all Those instruments with which high Spirits call The future from its cradle, and the past Out of its grave, and make the present last In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die, Folded within their own eternity. Our simple life wants little, and true taste Hires not the pale drudge Luxury, to waste The scene it would adorn, and therefore still, Nature with all her children haunts the hill. The ring-dove, in the embowering ivy, yet Keeps up her love-lament, and the owls flit Round the evening tower, and the young stars glance Between the quick bats in their twilight dance; The spotted deer bask in the fresh moonlight Before our gate, and the slow, silent night Is measured by the pants of their calm sleep. Be this our home in life, and when years heap Their withered hours, like leaves, on our decay, Let us become the overhanging day, The living soul of this Elysian isle, Conscious, inseparable, one. Meanwhile We two will rise, and sit, and walk together, Under the roof of blue Ionian weather, And wander in the meadows, or ascend The mossy mountains, where the blue heavens bend With lightest winds, to touch their paramour; Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore, Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy, Possessing and possessed by all that is Within that calm circumference of bliss, And by each other, till to love and live Be one:or, at the noontide hour, arrive Where some old cavern hoar seems yet to keep The moonlight of the expired night asleep, Through which the awakened day can never peep; A veil for our seclusion, close as night's, Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent lights; Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain Whose drops quench kisses till they burn again. And we will talk, until thought's melody Become too sweet for utterance, and it die In words, to live again in looks, which dart With thrilling tone into the voiceless heart, Harmonizing silence without a sound. Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, And our veins beat together; and our lips With other eloquence than words, eclipse The soul that burns between them, and the wells Which boil under our being's inmost cells, The fountains of our deepest life, shall be Confused in Passion's golden purity, As mountain-springs under the morning sun. We shall become the same, we shall be one Spirit within two frames, oh! wherefore two? One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew, Till like two meteors of expanding flame, Those spheres instinct with it become the same, Touch, mingle, are transfigured; ever still Burning, yet ever inconsumable: In one another's substance finding food, Like flames too pure and light and unimbued To nourish their bright lives with baser prey, Which point to Heaven and cannot pass away: One hope within two wills, one will beneath Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death, One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality, And one annihilation. Woe is me! The wingd words on which my soul would pierce Into the height of Love's rare Universe, Are chains of lead around its flight of fire I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire! Weak Verses, go, kneel at your Sovereign's feet, And say:'We are the masters of thy slave; What wouldest thou with us and ours and thine?" Then call your sisters from Oblivion's cave, All singing loud: 'Love's very pain is sweet, But its reward is in the world divine Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.' So shall ye live when I am there. Then haste Over the hearts of men, until ye meet Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest, And bid them love each other and be blessed: And leave the troop which errs, and which reproves, And come and be my guest,for I am Love's. Epipsychidion was composed at Pisa, Jan., Feb., 1821, and published without the author's name, in the following summer, by C. & J. Ollier, London. The poem was included by Mrs. Shelley in the Poetical Works, 1839, both edd. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Epipsychidion ,

872:Pelleas And Ettarre King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors Were softly sundered, and through these a youth, Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields Past, and the sunshine came along with him. `Make me thy knight, because I know, Sir King, All that belongs to knighthood, and I love.' Such was his cry: for having heard the King Had let proclaim a tournament--the prize A golden circlet and a knightly sword, Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won The golden circlet, for himself the sword: And there were those who knew him near the King, And promised for him: and Arthur made him knight. And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the isles-But lately come to his inheritance, And lord of many a barren isle was he-Riding at noon, a day or twain before, Across the forest called of Dean, to find Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reeled Almost to falling from his horse; but saw Near him a mound of even-sloping side, Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew, And here and there great hollies under them; But for a mile all round was open space, And fern and heath: and slowly Pelleas drew To that dim day, then binding his good horse To a tree, cast himself down; and as he lay At random looking over the brown earth Through that green-glooming twilight of the grove, It seemed to Pelleas that the fern without Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it. Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud Floating, and once the shadow of a bird 523 Flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes closed. And since he loved all maidens, but no maid In special, half-awake he whispered, `Where? O where? I love thee, though I know thee not. For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere, And I will make thee with my spear and sword As famous--O my Queen, my Guinevere, For I will be thine Arthur when we meet.' Suddenly wakened with a sound of talk And laughter at the limit of the wood, And glancing through the hoary boles, he saw, Strange as to some old prophet might have seemed A vision hovering on a sea of fire, Damsels in divers colours like the cloud Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them On horses, and the horses richly trapt Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood: And all the damsels talked confusedly, And one was pointing this way, and one that, Because the way was lost. And Pelleas rose, And loosed his horse, and led him to the light. There she that seemed the chief among them said, `In happy time behold our pilot-star! Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride, Armed as ye see, to tilt against the knights There at Caerleon, but have lost our way: To right? to left? straight forward? back again? Which? tell us quickly.' Pelleas gazing thought, `Is Guinevere herself so beautiful?' For large her violet eyes looked, and her bloom A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens, And round her limbs, mature in womanhood; And slender was her hand and small her shape; And but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn, She might have seemed a toy to trifle with, And pass and care no more. But while he gazed The beauty of her flesh abashed the boy, 524 As though it were the beauty of her soul: For as the base man, judging of the good, Puts his own baseness in him by default Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend All the young beauty of his own soul to hers, Believing her; and when she spake to him, Stammered, and could not make her a reply. For out of the waste islands had he come, Where saving his own sisters he had known Scarce any but the women of his isles, Rough wives, that laughed and screamed against the gulls, Makers of nets, and living from the sea. Then with a slow smile turned the lady round And looked upon her people; and as when A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn, The circle widens till it lip the marge, Spread the slow smile through all her company. Three knights were thereamong; and they too smiled, Scorning him; for the lady was Ettarre, And she was a great lady in her land. Again she said, `O wild and of the woods, Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech? Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair face, Lacking a tongue?' `O damsel,' answered he, `I woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave Pardon: but will ye to Caerleon? I Go likewise: shall I lead you to the King?' `Lead then,' she said; and through the woods they went. And while they rode, the meaning in his eyes, His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe, His broken utterances and bashfulness, Were all a burthen to her, and in her heart She muttered, `I have lighted on a fool, Raw, yet so stale!' But since her mind was bent On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name And title, `Queen of Beauty,' in the lists 525 Cried--and beholding him so strong, she thought That peradventure he will fight for me, And win the circlet: therefore flattered him, Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deemed His wish by hers was echoed; and her knights And all her damsels too were gracious to him, For she was a great lady. And when they reached Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she, Taking his hand, `O the strong hand,' she said, `See! look at mine! but wilt thou fight for me, And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas, That I may love thee?' Then his helpless heart Leapt, and he cried, `Ay! wilt thou if I win?' `Ay, that will I,' she answered, and she laughed, And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from her; Then glanced askew at those three knights of hers, Till all her ladies laughed along with her. `O happy world,' thought Pelleas, `all, meseems, Are happy; I the happiest of them all.' Nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood, And green wood-ways, and eyes among the leaves; Then being on the morrow knighted, sware To love one only. And as he came away, The men who met him rounded on their heels And wondered after him, because his face Shone like the countenance of a priest of old Against the flame about a sacrifice Kindled by fire from heaven: so glad was he. Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights From the four winds came in: and each one sat, Though served with choice from air, land, stream, and sea, Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes His neighbour's make and might: and Pelleas looked Noble among the noble, for he dreamed His lady loved him, and he knew himself Loved of the King: and him his new-made knight 526 Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved him more Than all the rangd reasons of the world. Then blushed and brake the morning of the jousts, And this was called `The Tournament of Youth:' For Arthur, loving his young knight, withheld His older and his mightier from the lists, That Pelleas might obtain his lady's love, According to her promise, and remain Lord of the tourney. And Arthur had the jousts Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk Holden: the gilded parapets were crowned With faces, and the great tower filled with eyes Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew. There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the field With honour: so by that strong hand of his The sword and golden circlet were achieved. Then rang the shout his lady loved: the heat Of pride and glory fired her face; her eye Sparkled; she caught the circlet from his lance, And there before the people crowned herself: So for the last time she was gracious to him. Then at Caerleon for a space--her look Bright for all others, cloudier on her knight-Lingered Ettarre: and seeing Pelleas droop, Said Guinevere, `We marvel at thee much, O damsel, wearing this unsunny face To him who won thee glory!' And she said, `Had ye not held your Lancelot in your bower, My Queen, he had not won.' Whereat the Queen, As one whose foot is bitten by an ant, Glanced down upon her, turned and went her way. But after, when her damsels, and herself, And those three knights all set their faces home, Sir Pelleas followed. She that saw him cried, `Damsels--and yet I should be shamed to say it-I cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back Among yourselves. Would rather that we had Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way, 527 Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride And jest with: take him to you, keep him off, And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will, Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep, Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys. Nay, should ye try him with a merry one To find his mettle, good: and if he fly us, Small matter! let him.' This her damsels heard, And mindful of her small and cruel hand, They, closing round him through the journey home, Acted her hest, and always from her side Restrained him with all manner of device, So that he could not come to speech with her. And when she gained her castle, upsprang the bridge, Down rang the grate of iron through the groove, And he was left alone in open field. `These be the ways of ladies,' Pelleas thought, `To those who love them, trials of our faith. Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost, For loyal to the uttermost am I.' So made his moan; and darkness falling, sought A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose With morning every day, and, moist or dry, Full-armed upon his charger all day long Sat by the walls, and no one opened to him. And this persistence turned her scorn to wrath. Then calling her three knights, she charged them, `Out! And drive him from the walls.' And out they came But Pelleas overthrew them as they dashed Against him one by one; and these returned, But still he kept his watch beneath the wall. Thereon her wrath became a hate; and once, A week beyond, while walking on the walls With her three knights, she pointed downward, `Look, He haunts me--I cannot breathe--besieges me; Down! strike him! put my hate into your strokes, And drive him from my walls.' And down they went, And Pelleas overthrew them one by one; And from the tower above him cried Ettarre, 528 `Bind him, and bring him in.' He heard her voice; Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew Be bounden straight, and so they brought him in. Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight Of her rich beauty made him at one glance More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds. Yet with good cheer he spake, `Behold me, Lady, A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will; And if thou keep me in thy donjon here, Content am I so that I see thy face But once a day: for I have sworn my vows, And thou hast given thy promise, and I know That all these pains are trials of my faith, And that thyself, when thou hast seen me strained And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length Yield me thy love and know me for thy knight.' Then she began to rail so bitterly, With all her damsels, he was stricken mute; But when she mocked his vows and the great King, Lighted on words: `For pity of thine own self, Peace, Lady, peace: is he not thine and mine?' `Thou fool,' she said, `I never heard his voice But longed to break away. Unbind him now, And thrust him out of doors; for save he be Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones, He will return no more.' And those, her three, Laughed, and unbound, and thrust him from the gate. And after this, a week beyond, again She called them, saying, `There he watches yet, There like a dog before his master's door! Kicked, he returns: do ye not hate him, ye? Ye know yourselves: how can ye bide at peace, Affronted with his fulsome innocence? Are ye but creatures of the board and bed, No men to strike? Fall on him all at once, And if ye slay him I reck not: if ye fail, 529 Give ye the slave mine order to be bound, Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in: It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds.' She spake; and at her will they couched their spears, Three against one: and Gawain passing by, Bound upon solitary adventure, saw Low down beneath the shadow of those towers A villainy, three to one: and through his heart The fire of honour and all noble deeds Flashed, and he called, `I strike upon thy side-The caitiffs!' `Nay,' said Pelleas, `but forbear; He needs no aid who doth his lady's will.' So Gawain, looking at the villainy done, Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness Trembled and quivered, as the dog, withheld A moment from the vermin that he sees Before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills. And Pelleas overthrew them, one to three; And they rose up, and bound, and brought him in. Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, burned Full on her knights in many an evil name Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten hound: `Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch, Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out, And let who will release him from his bonds. And if he comes again'--there she brake short; And Pelleas answered, `Lady, for indeed I loved you and I deemed you beautiful, I cannot brook to see your beauty marred Through evil spite: and if ye love me not, I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn: I had liefer ye were worthy of my love, Than to be loved again of you--farewell; And though ye kill my hope, not yet my love, Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more.' While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man Of princely bearing, though in bonds, and thought, `Why have I pushed him from me? this man loves, 530 If love there be: yet him I loved not. Why? I deemed him fool? yea, so? or that in him A something--was it nobler than myself? Seemed my reproach? He is not of my kind. He could not love me, did he know me well. Nay, let him go--and quickly.' And her knights Laughed not, but thrust him bounden out of door. Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from his bonds, And flung them o'er the walls; and afterward, Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's rag, `Faith of my body,' he said, `and art thou not-Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made Knight of his table; yea and he that won The circlet? wherefore hast thou so defamed Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest, As let these caitiffs on thee work their will?' And Pelleas answered, `O, their wills are hers For whom I won the circlet; and mine, hers, Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, Marred though it be with spite and mockery now, Other than when I found her in the woods; And though she hath me bounden but in spite, And all to flout me, when they bring me in, Let me be bounden, I shall see her face; Else must I die through mine unhappiness.' And Gawain answered kindly though in scorn, `Why, let my lady bind me if she will, And let my lady beat me if she will: But an she send her delegate to thrall These fighting hands of mine--Christ kill me then But I will slice him handless by the wrist, And let my lady sear the stump for him, Howl as he may. But hold me for your friend: Come, ye know nothing: here I pledge my troth, Yea, by the honour of the Table Round, I will be leal to thee and work thy work, And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand. Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will say That I have slain thee. She will let me in 531 To hear the manner of thy fight and fall; Then, when I come within her counsels, then From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise As prowest knight and truest lover, more Than any have sung thee living, till she long To have thee back in lusty life again, Not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm, Dearer than freedom. Wherefore now thy horse And armour: let me go: be comforted: Give me three days to melt her fancy, and hope The third night hence will bring thee news of gold.' Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms, Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took Gawain's, and said, `Betray me not, but help-Art thou not he whom men call light-of-love?' `Ay,' said Gawain, `for women be so light.' Then bounded forward to the castle walls, And raised a bugle hanging from his neck, And winded it, and that so musically That all the old echoes hidden in the wall Rang out like hollow woods at hunting-tide. Up ran a score of damsels to the tower; `Avaunt,' they cried, `our lady loves thee not.' But Gawain lifting up his vizor said, `Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's court, And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate: Behold his horse and armour. Open gates, And I will make you merry.' And down they ran, Her damsels, crying to their lady, `Lo! Pelleas is dead--he told us--he that hath His horse and armour: will ye let him in? He slew him! Gawain, Gawain of the court, Sir Gawain--there he waits below the wall, Blowing his bugle as who should say him nay.' And so, leave given, straight on through open door Rode Gawain, whom she greeted courteously. 532 `Dead, is it so?' she asked. `Ay, ay,' said he, `And oft in dying cried upon your name.' `Pity on him,' she answered, `a good knight, But never let me bide one hour at peace.' `Ay,' thought Gawain, `and you be fair enow: But I to your dead man have given my troth, That whom ye loathe, him will I make you love.' So those three days, aimless about the land, Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering Waited, until the third night brought a moon With promise of large light on woods and ways. Hot was the night and silent; but a sound Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay-Which Pelleas had heard sung before the Queen, And seen her sadden listening--vext his heart, And marred his rest--`A worm within the rose.' `A rose, but one, none other rose had I, A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair, One rose, a rose that gladdened earth and sky, One rose, my rose, that sweetened all mine air-I cared not for the thorns; the thorns were there. `One rose, a rose to gather by and by, One rose, a rose, to gather and to wear, No rose but one--what other rose had I? One rose, my rose; a rose that will not die,-He dies who loves it,--if the worm be there.' This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt, `Why lingers Gawain with his golden news?' So shook him that he could not rest, but rode Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse Hard by the gates. Wide open were the gates, And no watch kept; and in through these he past, And heard but his own steps, and his own heart Beating, for nothing moved but his own self, And his own shadow. Then he crost the court, And spied not any light in hall or bower, But saw the postern portal also wide 533 Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt And overgrowing them, went on, and found, Here too, all hushed below the mellow moon, Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself Among the roses, and was lost again. Then was he ware of three pavilions reared Above the bushes, gilden-peakt: in one, Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet: In one, their malice on the placid lip Frozen by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay: And in the third, the circlet of the jousts Bound on her brow, were Gawain and Ettarre. Back, as a hand that pushes through the leaf To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew: Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame Creep with his shadow through the court again, Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought, `I will go back, and slay them where they lie.' And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep Said, `Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep, Your sleep is death,' and drew the sword, and thought, `What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath bound And sworn me to this brotherhood;' again, `Alas that ever a knight should be so false.' Then turned, and so returned, and groaning laid The naked sword athwart their naked throats, There left it, and them sleeping; and she lay, The circlet of her tourney round her brows, And the sword of the tourney across her throat. And forth he past, and mounting on his horse Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves In their own darkness, thronged into the moon. 534 Then crushed the saddle with his thighs, and clenched His hands, and maddened with himself and moaned: `Would they have risen against me in their blood At the last day? I might have answered them Even before high God. O towers so strong, Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze The crack of earthquake shivering to your base Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot roofs Bellowing, and charred you through and through within, Black as the harlot's heart--hollow as a skull! Let the fierce east scream through your eyelet-holes, And whirl the dust of harlots round and round In dung and nettles! hiss, snake--I saw him there-Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. Who yells Here in the still sweet summer night, but I-I, the poor Pelleas whom she called her fool? Fool, beast--he, she, or I? myself most fool; Beast too, as lacking human wit--disgraced, Dishonoured all for trial of true love-Love?--we be all alike: only the King Hath made us fools and liars. O noble vows! O great and sane and simple race of brutes That own no lust because they have no law! For why should I have loved her to my shame? I loathe her, as I loved her to my shame. I never loved her, I but lusted for her-Away--' He dashed the rowel into his horse, And bounded forth and vanished through the night. Then she, that felt the cold touch on her throat, Awaking knew the sword, and turned herself To Gawain: `Liar, for thou hast not slain This Pelleas! here he stood, and might have slain Me and thyself.' And he that tells the tale Says that her ever-veering fancy turned To Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth, And only lover; and through her love her life Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain. But he by wild and way, for half the night, 535 And over hard and soft, striking the sod From out the soft, the spark from off the hard, Rode till the star above the wakening sun, Beside that tower where Percivale was cowled, Glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn. For so the words were flashed into his heart He knew not whence or wherefore: `O sweet star, Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn!' And there he would have wept, but felt his eyes Harder and drier than a fountain bed In summer: thither came the village girls And lingered talking, and they come no more Till the sweet heavens have filled it from the heights Again with living waters in the change Of seasons: hard his eyes; harder his heart Seemed; but so weary were his limbs, that he, Gasping, `Of Arthur's hall am I, but here, Here let me rest and die,' cast himself down, And gulfed his griefs in inmost sleep; so lay, Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired The hall of Merlin, and the morning star Reeled in the smoke, brake into flame, and fell. He woke, and being ware of some one nigh, Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying, `False! and I held thee pure as Guinevere.' But Percivale stood near him and replied, `Am I but false as Guinevere is pure? Or art thou mazed with dreams? or being one Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard That Lancelot'--there he checked himself and paused. Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with one Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword That made it plunges through the wound again, And pricks it deeper: and he shrank and wailed, `Is the Queen false?' and Percivale was mute. `Have any of our Round Table held their vows?' And Percivale made answer not a word. `Is the King true?' `The King!' said Percivale. `Why then let men couple at once with wolves. 536 What! art thou mad?' But Pelleas, leaping up, Ran through the doors and vaulted on his horse And fled: small pity upon his horse had he, Or on himself, or any, and when he met A cripple, one that held a hand for alms-Hunched as he was, and like an old dwarf-elm That turns its back upon the salt blast, the boy Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, `False, And false with Gawain!' and so left him bruised And battered, and fled on, and hill and wood Went ever streaming by him till the gloom, That follows on the turning of the world, Darkened the common path: he twitched the reins, And made his beast that better knew it, swerve Now off it and now on; but when he saw High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built, Blackening against the dead-green stripes of even, `Black nest of rats,' he groaned, `ye build too high.' Not long thereafter from the city gates Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, Warm with a gracious parting from the Queen, Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star And marvelling what it was: on whom the boy, Across the silent seeded meadow-grass Borne, clashed: and Lancelot, saying, `What name hast thou That ridest here so blindly and so hard?' `No name, no name,' he shouted, `a scourge am I To lash the treasons of the Table Round.' `Yea, but thy name?' `I have many names,' he cried: `I am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame, And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the Queen.' `First over me,' said Lancelot, `shalt thou pass.' `Fight therefore,' yelled the youth, and either knight Drew back a space, and when they closed, at once The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung His rider, who called out from the dark field, `Thou art as false as Hell: slay me: I have no sword.' Then Lancelot, `Yea, between thy lips--and sharp; 537 But here I will disedge it by thy death.' `Slay then,' he shrieked, `my will is to be slain,' And Lancelot, with his heel upon the fallen, Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then spake: `Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot; say thy say.' And Lancelot slowly rode his warhorse back To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark field, And followed to the city. It chanced that both Brake into hall together, worn and pale. There with her knights and dames was Guinevere. Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot So soon returned, and then on Pelleas, him Who had not greeted her, but cast himself Down on a bench, hard-breathing. `Have ye fought?' She asked of Lancelot. `Ay, my Queen,' he said. `And hast thou overthrown him?' `Ay, my Queen.' Then she, turning to Pelleas, `O young knight, Hath the great heart of knighthood in thee failed So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, A fall from HIM?' Then, for he answered not, `Or hast thou other griefs? If I, the Queen, May help them, loose thy tongue, and let me know.' But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce She quailed; and he, hissing `I have no sword,' Sprang from the door into the dark. The Queen Looked hard upon her lover, he on her; And each foresaw the dolorous day to be: And all talk died, as in a grove all song Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey; Then a long silence came upon the hall, And Modred thought, `The time is hard at hand.' ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

873:Balin And Balan Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot In that first war, and had his realm restored But rendered tributary, failed of late To send his tribute; wherefore Arthur called His treasurer, one of many years, and spake, 'Go thou with him and him and bring it to us, Lest we should set one truer on his throne. Man's word is God in man.' His Baron said 'We go but harken: there be two strange knights Who sit near Camelot at a fountain-side, A mile beneath the forest, challenging And overthrowing every knight who comes. Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass, And send them to thee?' Arthur laughed upon him. 'Old friend, too old to be so young, depart, Delay not thou for aught, but let them sit, Until they find a lustier than themselves.' So these departed. Early, one fair dawn, The light-winged spirit of his youth returned On Arthur's heart; he armed himself and went, So coming to the fountain-side beheld Balin and Balan sitting statuelike, Brethren, to right and left the spring, that down, From underneath a plume of lady-fern, Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of it. And on the right of Balin Balin's horse Was fast beside an alder, on the left Of Balan Balan's near a poplartree. 'Fair Sirs,' said Arthur, 'wherefore sit ye here?' Balin and Balan answered 'For the sake Of glory; we be mightier men than all In Arthur's court; that also have we proved; For whatsoever knight against us came Or I or he have easily overthrown.' 'I too,' said Arthur, 'am of Arthur's hall, 26 But rather proven in his Paynim wars Than famous jousts; but see, or proven or not, Whether me likewise ye can overthrow.' And Arthur lightly smote the brethren down, And lightly so returned, and no man knew. Then Balin rose, and Balan, and beside The carolling water set themselves again, And spake no word until the shadow turned; When from the fringe of coppice round them burst A spangled pursuivant, and crying 'Sirs, Rise, follow! ye be sent for by the King,' They followed; whom when Arthur seeing asked 'Tell me your names; why sat ye by the well?' Balin the stillness of a minute broke Saying 'An unmelodious name to thee, Balin, "the Savage"--that addition thine-My brother and my better, this man here, Balan. I smote upon the naked skull A thrall of thine in open hall, my hand Was gauntleted, half slew him; for I heard He had spoken evil of me; thy just wrath Sent me a three-years' exile from thine eyes. I have not lived my life delightsomely: For I that did that violence to thy thrall, Had often wrought some fury on myself, Saving for Balan: those three kingless years Have past--were wormwood-bitter to me. King, Methought that if we sat beside the well, And hurled to ground what knight soever spurred Against us, thou would'st take me gladlier back, And make, as ten-times worthier to be thine Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I have said. Not so--not all. A man of thine today Abashed us both, and brake my boast. Thy will?' Said Arthur 'Thou hast ever spoken truth; Thy too fierce manhood would not let thee lie. Rise, my true knight. As children learn, be thou Wiser for falling! walk with me, and move To music with thine Order and the King. Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, stands Vacant, but thou retake it, mine again!' 27 Thereafter, when Sir Balin entered hall, The Lost one Found was greeted as in Heaven With joy that blazed itself in woodland wealth Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of flowers, Along the walls and down the board; they sat, And cup clashed cup; they drank and some one sang, Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, whereupon Their common shout in chorus, mounting, made Those banners of twelve battles overhead Stir, as they stirred of old, when Arthur's host Proclaimed him Victor, and the day was won. Then Balan added to their Order lived A wealthier life than heretofore with these And Balin, till their embassage returned. 'Sir King' they brought report 'we hardly found, So bushed about it is with gloom, the hall Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, once A Christless foe of thine as ever dashed Horse against horse; but seeing that thy realm Hath prospered in the name of Christ, the King Took, as in rival heat, to holy things; And finds himself descended from the Saint Arimathan Joseph; him who first Brought the great faith to Britain over seas; He boasts his life as purer than thine own; Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat; Hath pushed aside his faithful wife, nor lets Or dame or damsel enter at his gates Lest he should be polluted. This gray King Showed us a shrine wherein were wonders--yea-Rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom, Thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross, And therewithal (for thus he told us) brought By holy Joseph thither, that same spear Wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ. He much amazed us; after, when we sought The tribute, answered "I have quite foregone All matters of this world: Garlon, mine heir, Of him demand it," which this Garlon gave 28 With much ado, railing at thine and thee. 'But when we left, in those deep woods we found A knight of thine spear-stricken from behind, Dead, whom we buried; more than one of us Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman there Reported of some demon in the woods Was once a man, who driven by evil tongues From all his fellows, lived alone, and came To learn black magic, and to hate his kind With such a hate, that when he died, his soul Became a Fiend, which, as the man in life Was wounded by blind tongues he saw not whence, Strikes from behind. This woodman showed the cave From which he sallies, and wherein he dwelt. We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no more.' Then Arthur, 'Let who goes before me, see He do not fall behind me: foully slain And villainously! who will hunt for me This demon of the woods?' Said Balan, 'I'! So claimed the quest and rode away, but first, Embracing Balin, 'Good my brother, hear! Let not thy moods prevail, when I am gone Who used to lay them! hold them outer fiends, Who leap at thee to tear thee; shake them aside, Dreams ruling when wit sleeps! yea, but to dream That any of these would wrong thee, wrongs thyself. Witness their flowery welcome. Bound are they To speak no evil. Truly save for fears, My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship Would make me wholly blest: thou one of them, Be one indeed: consider them, and all Their bearing in their common bond of love, No more of hatred than in Heaven itself, No more of jealousy than in Paradise.' So Balan warned, and went; Balin remained: Who--for but three brief moons had glanced away From being knighted till he smote the thrall, And faded from the presence into years Of exile--now would strictlier set himself 29 To learn what Arthur meant by courtesy, Manhood, and knighthood; wherefore hovered round Lancelot, but when he marked his high sweet smile In passing, and a transitory word Make knight or churl or child or damsel seem From being smiled at happier in themselves-Sighed, as a boy lame-born beneath a height, That glooms his valley, sighs to see the peak Sun-flushed, or touch at night the northern star; For one from out his village lately climed And brought report of azure lands and fair, Far seen to left and right; and he himself Hath hardly scaled with help a hundred feet Up from the base: so Balin marvelling oft How far beyond him Lancelot seemed to move, Groaned, and at times would mutter, 'These be gifts, Born with the blood, not learnable, divine, Beyond MY reach. Well had I foughten--well-In those fierce wars, struck hard--and had I crowned With my slain self the heaps of whom I slew-So--better!--But this worship of the Queen, That honour too wherein she holds him--this, This was the sunshine that hath given the man A growth, a name that branches o'er the rest, And strength against all odds, and what the King So prizes--overprizes--gentleness. Her likewise would I worship an I might. I never can be close with her, as he That brought her hither. Shall I pray the King To let me bear some token of his Queen Whereon to gaze, remembering her--forget My heats and violences? live afresh? What, if the Queen disdained to grant it! nay Being so stately-gentle, would she make My darkness blackness? and with how sweet grace She greeted my return! Bold will I be-Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere, In lieu of this rough beast upon my shield, Langued gules, and toothed with grinning savagery.' And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought him, said 'What wilt thou bear?' Balin was bold, and asked 30 To bear her own crown-royal upon shield, Whereat she smiled and turned her to the King, Who answered 'Thou shalt put the crown to use. The crown is but the shadow of the King, And this a shadow's shadow, let him have it, So this will help him of his violences!' 'No shadow' said Sir Balin 'O my Queen, But light to me! no shadow, O my King, But golden earnest of a gentler life!' So Balin bare the crown, and all the knights Approved him, and the Queen, and all the world Made music, and he felt his being move In music with his Order, and the King. The nightingale, full-toned in middle May, Hath ever and anon a note so thin It seems another voice in other groves; Thus, after some quick burst of sudden wrath, The music in him seemed to change, and grow Faint and far-off. And once he saw the thrall His passion half had gauntleted to death, That causer of his banishment and shame, Smile at him, as he deemed, presumptuously: His arm half rose to strike again, but fell: The memory of that cognizance on shield Weighted it down, but in himself he moaned: 'Too high this mount of Camelot for me: These high-set courtesies are not for me. Shall I not rather prove the worse for these? Fierier and stormier from restraining, break Into some madness even before the Queen?' Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain home, And glancing on the window, when the gloom Of twilight deepens round it, seems a flame That rages in the woodland far below, So when his moods were darkened, court and King And all the kindly warmth of Arthur's hall Shadowed an angry distance: yet he strove 31 To learn the graces of their Table, fought Hard with himself, and seemed at length in peace. Then chanced, one morning, that Sir Balin sat Close-bowered in that garden nigh the hall. A walk of roses ran from door to door; A walk of lilies crost it to the bower: And down that range of roses the great Queen Came with slow steps, the morning on her face; And all in shadow from the counter door Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once, As if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced The long white walk of lilies toward the bower. Followed the Queen; Sir Balin heard her 'Prince, Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen, As pass without good morrow to thy Queen?' To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on earth, 'Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen.' 'Yea so' she said 'but so to pass me by-So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself, Whom all men rate the king of courtesy. Let be: ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream.' Then Lancelot with his hand among the flowers 'Yea--for a dream. Last night methought I saw That maiden Saint who stands with lily in hand In yonder shrine. All round her prest the dark, And all the light upon her silver face Flowed from the spiritual lily that she held. Lo! these her emblems drew mine eyes--away: For see, how perfect-pure! As light a flush As hardly tints the blossom of the quince Would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood.' 'Sweeter to me' she said 'this garden rose Deep-hued and many-folded! sweeter still The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom of May. Prince, we have ridden before among the flowers In those fair days--not all as cool as these, Though season-earlier. Art thou sad? or sick? Our noble King will send thee his own leech-Sick? or for any matter angered at me?' 32 Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes; they dwelt Deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall: her hue Changed at his gaze: so turning side by side They past, and Balin started from his bower. 'Queen? subject? but I see not what I see. Damsel and lover? hear not what I hear. My father hath begotten me in his wrath. I suffer from the things before me, know, Learn nothing; am not worthy to be knight; A churl, a clown!' and in him gloom on gloom Deepened: he sharply caught his lance and shield, Nor stayed to crave permission of the King, But, mad for strange adventure, dashed away. He took the selfsame track as Balan, saw The fountain where they sat together, sighed 'Was I not better there with him?' and rode The skyless woods, but under open blue Came on the hoarhead woodman at a bough Wearily hewing. 'Churl, thine axe!' he cried, Descended, and disjointed it at a blow: To whom the woodman uttered wonderingly 'Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of these woods If arm of flesh could lay him.' Balin cried 'Him, or the viler devil who plays his part, To lay that devil would lay the Devil in me.' 'Nay' said the churl, 'our devil is a truth, I saw the flash of him but yestereven. And some DO say that our Sir Garlon too Hath learned black magic, and to ride unseen. Look to the cave.' But Balin answered him 'Old fabler, these be fancies of the churl, Look to thy woodcraft,' and so leaving him, Now with slack rein and careless of himself, Now with dug spur and raving at himself, Now with droopt brow down the long glades he rode; So marked not on his right a cavern-chasm Yawn over darkness, where, nor far within, The whole day died, but, dying, gleamed on rocks Roof-pendent, sharp; and others from the floor, 33 Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of night Whereout the Demon issued up from Hell. He marked not this, but blind and deaf to all Save that chained rage, which ever yelpt within, Past eastward from the falling sun. At once He felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud And tremble, and then the shadow of a spear, Shot from behind him, ran along the ground. Sideways he started from the path, and saw, With pointed lance as if to pierce, a shape, A light of armour by him flash, and pass And vanish in the woods; and followed this, But all so blind in rage that unawares He burst his lance against a forest bough, Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and fled Far, till the castle of a King, the hall Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped With streaming grass, appeared, low-built but strong; The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss, The battlement overtopt with ivytods, A home of bats, in every tower an owl. Then spake the men of Pellam crying 'Lord, Why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield?' Said Balin 'For the fairest and the best Of ladies living gave me this to bear.' So stalled his horse, and strode across the court, But found the greetings both of knight and King Faint in the low dark hall of banquet: leaves Laid their green faces flat against the panes, Sprays grated, and the cankered boughs without Whined in the wood; for all was hushed within, Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise asked 'Why wear ye that crown-royal?' Balin said 'The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, and all, As fairest, best and purest, granted me To bear it!' Such a sound (for Arthur's knights Were hated strangers in the hall) as makes The white swan-mother, sitting, when she hears A strange knee rustle through her secret reeds, Made Garlon, hissing; then he sourly smiled. 'Fairest I grant her: I have seen; but best, Best, purest? THOU from Arthur's hall, and yet 34 So simple! hast thou eyes, or if, are these So far besotted that they fail to see This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret shame? Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes.' A goblet on the board by Balin, bossed With holy Joseph's legend, on his right Stood, all of massiest bronze: one side had sea And ship and sail and angels blowing on it: And one was rough with wattling, and the walls Of that low church he built at Glastonbury. This Balin graspt, but while in act to hurl, Through memory of that token on the shield Relaxed his hold: 'I will be gentle' he thought 'And passing gentle' caught his hand away, Then fiercely to Sir Garlon 'Eyes have I That saw today the shadow of a spear, Shot from behind me, run along the ground; Eyes too that long have watched how Lancelot draws From homage to the best and purest, might, Name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly thine, Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst endure To mouth so huge a foulness--to thy guest, Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon talk! Let be! no more!' But not the less by night The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his rest, Stung him in dreams. At length, and dim through leaves Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs Whined in the wood. He rose, descended, met The scorner in the castle court, and fain, For hate and loathing, would have past him by; But when Sir Garlon uttered mocking-wise; 'What, wear ye still that same crown-scandalous?' His countenance blackened, and his forehead veins Bloated, and branched; and tearing out of sheath The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery 'Ha! So thou be shadow, here I make thee ghost,' Hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the stones. Then Garlon, reeling slowly backward, fell, And Balin by the banneret of his helm 35 Dragged him, and struck, but from the castle a cry Sounded across the court, and--men-at-arms, A score with pointed lances, making at him-He dashed the pummel at the foremost face, Beneath a low door dipt, and made his feet Wings through a glimmering gallery, till he marked The portal of King Pellam's chapel wide And inward to the wall; he stept behind; Thence in a moment heard them pass like wolves Howling; but while he stared about the shrine, In which he scarce could spy the Christ for Saints, Beheld before a golden altar lie The longest lance his eyes had ever seen, Point-painted red; and seizing thereupon Pushed through an open casement down, leaned on it, Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth; Then hand at ear, and harkening from what side The blindfold rummage buried in the walls Might echo, ran the counter path, and found His charger, mounted on him and away. An arrow whizzed to the right, one to the left, One overhead; and Pellam's feeble cry 'Stay, stay him! he defileth heavenly things With earthly uses'--made him quickly dive Beneath the boughs, and race through many a mile Of dense and open, till his goodly horse, Arising wearily at a fallen oak, Stumbled headlong, and cast him face to ground. Half-wroth he had not ended, but all glad, Knightlike, to find his charger yet unlamed, Sir Balin drew the shield from off his neck, Stared at the priceless cognizance, and thought 'I have shamed thee so that now thou shamest me, Thee will I bear no more,' high on a branch Hung it, and turned aside into the woods, And there in gloom cast himself all along, Moaning 'My violences, my violences!' But now the wholesome music of the wood Was dumbed by one from out the hall of Mark, A damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode 36 The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her Squire. 'The fire of Heaven has killed the barren cold, And kindled all the plain and all the wold. The new leaf ever pushes off the old. The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 'Old priest, who mumble worship in your quire-Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world's desire, Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire! The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 'The fire of Heaven is on the dusty ways. The wayside blossoms open to the blaze. The whole wood-world is one full peal of praise. The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 'The fire of Heaven is lord of all things good, And starve not thou this fire within thy blood, But follow Vivien through the fiery flood! The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell!' Then turning to her Squire 'This fire of Heaven, This old sun-worship, boy, will rise again, And beat the cross to earth, and break the King And all his Table.' Then they reached a glade, Where under one long lane of cloudless air Before another wood, the royal crown Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless elm Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and her Squire; Amazed were these; 'Lo there' she cried--'a crown-Borne by some high lord-prince of Arthur's hall, And there a horse! the rider? where is he? See, yonder lies one dead within the wood. Not dead; he stirs!--but sleeping. I will speak. Hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet rest, Not, doubtless, all unearned by noble deeds. But bounden art thou, if from Arthur's hall, To help the weak. Behold, I fly from shame, A lustful King, who sought to win my love Through evil ways: the knight, with whom I rode, 37 Hath suffered misadventure, and my squire Hath in him small defence; but thou, Sir Prince, Wilt surely guide me to the warrior King, Arthur the blameless, pure as any maid, To get me shelter for my maidenhood. I charge thee by that crown upon thy shield, And by the great Queen's name, arise and hence.' And Balin rose, 'Thither no more! nor Prince Nor knight am I, but one that hath defamed The cognizance she gave me: here I dwell Savage among the savage woods, here die-Die: let the wolves' black maws ensepulchre Their brother beast, whose anger was his lord. O me, that such a name as Guinevere's, Which our high Lancelot hath so lifted up, And been thereby uplifted, should through me, My violence, and my villainy, come to shame.' Thereat she suddenly laughed and shrill, anon Sighed all as suddenly. Said Balin to her 'Is this thy courtesy--to mock me, ha? Hence, for I will not with thee.' Again she sighed 'Pardon, sweet lord! we maidens often laugh When sick at heart, when rather we should weep. I knew thee wronged. I brake upon thy rest, And now full loth am I to break thy dream, But thou art man, and canst abide a truth, Though bitter. Hither, boy--and mark me well. Dost thou remember at Caerleon once-A year ago--nay, then I love thee not-Ay, thou rememberest well--one summer dawn-By the great tower--Caerleon upon Usk-Nay, truly we were hidden: this fair lord, The flower of all their vestal knighthood, knelt In amorous homage--knelt--what else?--O ay Knelt, and drew down from out his night-black hair And mumbled that white hand whose ringed caress Had wandered from her own King's golden head, And lost itself in darkness, till she cried-I thought the great tower would crash down on both-"Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on the lips, 38 Thou art my King." This lad, whose lightest word Is mere white truth in simple nakedness, Saw them embrace: he reddens, cannot speak, So bashful, he! but all the maiden Saints, The deathless mother-maidenhood of Heaven, Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with me! Talk not of shame! thou canst not, an thou would'st, Do these more shame than these have done themselves.' She lied with ease; but horror-stricken he, Remembering that dark bower at Camelot, Breathed in a dismal whisper 'It is truth.' Sunnily she smiled 'And even in this lone wood, Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper this. Fools prate, and perish traitors. Woods have tongues, As walls have ears: but thou shalt go with me, And we will speak at first exceeding low. Meet is it the good King be not deceived. See now, I set thee high on vantage ground, From whence to watch the time, and eagle-like Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the Queen.' She ceased; his evil spirit upon him leapt, He ground his teeth together, sprang with a yell, Tore from the branch, and cast on earth, the shield, Drove his mailed heel athwart the royal crown, Stampt all into defacement, hurled it from him Among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale, The told-of, and the teller. That weird yell, Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or beast, Thrilled through the woods; and Balan lurking there (His quest was unaccomplished) heard and thought 'The scream of that Wood-devil I came to quell!' Then nearing 'Lo! he hath slain some brother-knight, And tramples on the goodly shield to show His loathing of our Order and the Queen. My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil or man Guard thou thine head.' Sir Balin spake not word, But snatched a sudden buckler from the Squire, And vaulted on his horse, and so they crashed 39 In onset, and King Pellam's holy spear, Reputed to be red with sinless blood, Redded at once with sinful, for the point Across the maiden shield of Balan pricked The hauberk to the flesh; and Balin's horse Was wearied to the death, and, when they clashed, Rolling back upon Balin, crushed the man Inward, and either fell, and swooned away. Then to her Squire muttered the damsel 'Fools! This fellow hath wrought some foulness with his Queen: Else never had he borne her crown, nor raved And thus foamed over at a rival name: But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast broken shell, Art yet half-yolk, not even come to down-Who never sawest Caerleon upon Usk-And yet hast often pleaded for my love-See what I see, be thou where I have been, Or else Sir Chick--dismount and loose their casques I fain would know what manner of men they be.' And when the Squire had loosed them, 'Goodly!--look! They might have cropt the myriad flower of May, And butt each other here, like brainless bulls, Dead for one heifer! Then the gentle Squire 'I hold them happy, so they died for love: And, Vivien, though ye beat me like your dog, I too could die, as now I live, for thee.' 'Live on, Sir Boy,' she cried. 'I better prize The living dog than the dead lion: away! I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.' Then leapt her palfrey o'er the fallen oak, And bounding forward 'Leave them to the wolves.' But when their foreheads felt the cooling air, Balin first woke, and seeing that true face, Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan, Crawled slowly with low moans to where he lay, And on his dying brother cast himself Dying; and HE lifted faint eyes; he felt One near him; all at once they found the world, 40 Staring wild-wide; then with a childlike wail And drawing down the dim disastrous brow That o'er him hung, he kissed it, moaned and spake; 'O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death. Why had ye not the shield I knew? and why Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown?' Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps, All that had chanced, and Balan moaned again. 'Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's hall: This Garlon mocked me, but I heeded not. And one said "Eat in peace! a liar is he, And hates thee for the tribute!" this good knight Told me, that twice a wanton damsel came, And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates, Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat. I well believe this damsel, and the one Who stood beside thee even now, the same. "She dwells among the woods" he said "and meets And dallies with him in the Mouth of Hell." Foul are their lives; foul are their lips; they lied. Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen." 'O brother' answered Balin 'woe is me! My madness all thy life has been thy doom, Thy curse, and darkened all thy day; and now The night has come. I scarce can see thee now. Goodnight! for we shall never bid again Goodmorrow--Dark my doom was here, and dark It will be there. I see thee now no more. I would not mine again should darken thine, Goodnight, true brother. Balan answered low 'Goodnight, true brother here! goodmorrow there! We two were born together, and we die Together by one doom:' and while he spoke Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep With Balin, either locked in either's arm. 41 ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

874:Upon Appleton House, To My Lord Fairfax Within this sober Frame expect Work of no Forrain Architect; That unto Caves the Quarries drew, And Forrests did to Pastures hew; Who of his great Design in pain Did for a Model vault his Brain, Whose Columnes should so high be rais'd To arch the Brows that on them gaz'd. Why should of all things Man unrul'd Such unproportion'd dwellings build? The Beasts are by their Denns exprest: And Birds contrive an equal Nest; The low roof'd Tortoises do dwell In cases fit of Tortoise-shell: No Creature loves an empty space; Their Bodies measure out their Place. But He, superfluously spread, Demands more room alive then dead. And in his hollow Palace goes Where Winds as he themselves may lose. What need of all this Marble Crust T'impark the wanton Mose of Dust, That thinks by Breadth the World t'unite Though the first Builders fail'd in Height? But all things are composed here Like Nature, orderly and near: In which we the Dimensions find Of that more sober Age and Mind, When larger sized Men did stoop To enter at a narrow loop; As practising, in doors so strait, To strain themselves through Heavens Gate. And surely when the after Age Shall hither come in Pilgrimage, These sacred Places to adore, 188 By Vere and Fairfax trod before, Men will dispute how their Extent Within such dwarfish Confines went: And some will smile at this, as well As Romulus his Bee-like Cell. Humility alone designs Those short but admirable Lines, By which, ungirt and unconstrain'd, Things greater are in less contain'd. Let others vainly strive t'immure The Circle in the Quadrature! These holy Mathematics can In ev'ry Figure equal Man. Yet thus the laden House does sweat, And scarce indures the Master great: But where he comes the swelling Hall Stirs, and the Square grows Spherical; More by his Magnitude distrest, Then he is by its straitness prest: And too officiously it slights That in it self which him delights. So Honour better Lowness bears, Then That unwonted Greatness wears Height with a certain Grace does bend, But low Things clownishly ascend. And yet what needs there here Excuse, Where ev'ry Thing does answer Use? Where neatness nothing can condemn, Nor Pride invent what to contemn? A Stately Frontispice Of Poor Adorns without the open Door: Nor less the Rooms within commends Daily new Furniture Of Friends. The House was built upon the Place Only as for a Mark Of Grace; And for an Inn to entertain Its Lord a while, but not remain. 189 Him Bishops-Hill, or Denton may, Or Bilbrough, better hold then they: But Nature here hath been so free As if she said leave this to me. Art would more neatly have defac'd What she had laid so sweetly wast; In fragrant Gardens, shaddy Woods, Deep Meadows, and transparent Floods. While with slow Eyes we these survey, And on each pleasant footstep stay, We opportunly may relate The progress of this Houses Fate. A Nunnery first gave it birth. For Virgin Buildings oft brought forth. And all that Neighbour-Ruine shows The Quarries whence this dwelling rose. Near to this gloomy Cloysters Gates There dwelt the blooming Virgin Thwates, Fair beyond Measure, and an Heir Which might Deformity make fair. And oft She spent the Summer Suns Discoursing with the Suttle Nuns. Whence in these Words one to her weav'd, (As 'twere by Chance) Thoughts long conceiv'd. "Within this holy leisure we "Live innocently as you see. "these Walls restrain the World without, "But hedge our Liberty about. "These Bars inclose the wider Den "Of those wild Creatures, called Men. "The Cloyster outward shuts its Gates, "And, from us, locks on them the Grates. "Here we, in shining Armour white, "Like Virgin Amazons do fight. "And our chast Lamps we hourly trim, "Lest the great Bridegroom find them dim. "Our Orient Breaths perfumed are "With insense of incessant Pray'r. 190 "And Holy-water of our Tears "Most strangly our complexion clears. "Not Tears of Grief; but such as those "With which calm Pleasure overflows; "Or Pity, when we look on you "That live without this happy Vow. "How should we grieve that must be seen "Each one a Spouse, and each a Queen; "And can in Heaven hence behold "Our brighter Robes and Crowns of Gold? "When we have prayed all our Beads, "Some One the holy Legend reads; "While all the rest with Needles paint "The Face and Graces of the Saint. "But what the Linnen can't receive "They in their Lives do interweave "This work the Saints best represents; "That serves for Altar's Ornaments. "But much it to our work would add "If here your hand, your Face we had: "By it we would our Lady touch; "Yet thus She you resembles much. "Some of your Features, as we sow'd, "Through ev'ry Shrine should be bestow'd. "And in one Beauty we would take "Enough a thousand Saints to make. "And (for I dare not quench the Fire "That me does for your good inspire) "'Twere Sacriledge a Mant t'admit "To holy things, for Heaven fit. "I see the Angels in a Crown "On you the Lillies show'ring down: "And round about you Glory breaks, "That something more then humane speaks. "All Beauty, when at such a height, "Is so already consecrate. "Fairfax I know; and long ere this 191 "Have mark'd the Youth, and what he is. "But can he such a Rival seem "For whom you Heav'n should disesteem? "Ah, no! and 'twould more Honour prove "He your Devoto were, then Love. Here live beloved, and obey'd: Each one your Sister, each your Maid. "And, if our Rule seem strictly pend, "The Rule it self to you shall bend. "Our Abbess too, now far in Age, "Doth your succession near presage. "How soft the yoke on us would lye, "Might such fair Hands as yours it tye! "Your voice, the sweetest of the Quire, "Shall draw Heav'n nearer, raise us higher. "And your Example, if our Head, "Will soon us to perfection lead. "Those Virtues to us all so dear, "Will straight grow Sanctity when here: "And that, once sprung, increase so fast "Till Miracles it work at last. "Nor is our Order yet so nice, "Delight to banish as a Vice. "Here Pleasure Piety doth meet; "One perfecting the other Sweet. "So through the mortal fruit we boyl "The Sugars uncorrupting Oyl: "And that which perisht while we pull, "Is thus preserved clear and full. "For such indeed are all our Arts; "Still handling Natures finest Parts. "Flow'rs dress the Altars; for the Clothes, "The Sea-born Amber we compose; "Balms for the griv'd we draw; and pasts "We mold, as Baits for curious tasts. "What need is here of Man? unless "These as sweet Sins we should confess. 192 "Each Night among us to your side "Appoint a fresh and Virgin Bride; "Whom if Our Lord at midnight find, "Yet Neither should be left behind. "Where you may lye as chast in Bed, "As Pearls together billeted. "All Night embracing Arm in Arm, "Like Chrystal pure with Cotton warm. "But what is this to all the store "Of Joys you see, and may make more! "Try but a while, if you be wise: "The Tryal neither Costs, nor Tyes. Now Fairfax seek her promis'd faith: Religion that dispensed hath; Which She hence forward does begin; The Nuns smooth Tongue has suckt her in. Oft, though he knew it was in vain, Yet would he valiantly complain. "Is this that Sanctity so great, "An Art by which you finly'r cheat "Hypocrite Witches, hence Avant, "Who though in prison yet inchant! "Death only can such Theeves make fast, "As rob though in the Dungeon cast. "Were there but, when this House was made, "One Stone that a just Hand had laid, "It must have fall'n upon her Head "Who first Thee from thy Faith misled. "And yet, how well soever ment, "With them 'twould soon grow fraudulent "For like themselves they alter all, "And vice infects the very Wall. "But sure those Buildings last not long, "Founded by Folly, kept by Wrong. "I know what Fruit their Gardens yield, "When they it think by Night conceal'd. "Fly from their Vices. 'Tis thy state, "Not Thee, that they would consecrate. 193 "Fly from their Ruine. How I fear "Though guiltless lest thou perish there. What should he do? He would respect Religion, but not Right neglect: For first Religion taught him Right, And dazled not but clear'd his sight. Sometimes resolv'd his Sword he draws, But reverenceth then the Laws: "For Justice still that Courage led; First from a Judge, then Souldier bred. Small Honour would be in the Storm. The Court him grants the lawful Form; Which licens'd either Peace or Force, To hinder the unjust Divorce. Yet still the Nuns his Right debar'd, Standing upon their holy Guard. Ill-counsell'd Women, do you know Whom you resist, or what you do? Is not this he whose Offspring fierce Shall fight through all the Universe; And with successive Valour try France, Poland, either Germany; Till one, as long since prophecy'd, His Horse through conquer'd Britain ride? Yet, against Fate, his Spouse they kept; And the great Race would intercept. Some to the Breach against their Foes Their Wooden Saints in vain oppose Another bolder stands at push With their old Holy-Water Brush. While the disjointed Abbess threads The gingling Chain-shot of her Beads. But their lowd'st Cannon were their Lungs; And sharpest Weapons were their Tongues. But, waving these aside like Flyes, Young Fairfax through the Wall does rise. Then th' unfrequented Vault appear'd, 194 And superstitions vainly fear'd. The Relicks False were set to view; Only the Jewels there were true. But truly bright and holy Thwaites That weeping at the Altar waites. But the glad Youth away her bears, And to the Nuns bequeaths her Tears: Who guiltily their Prize bemoan, Like Gipsies that a Child hath stoln. Thenceforth (as when th' Inchantment ends The Castle vanishes or rends) The wasting Cloister with the rest Was in one instant dispossest. At the demolishing, this Seat To Fairfax fell as by Escheat. And what both Nuns and Founders will'd 'Tis likely better thus fulfill'd, For if the Virgin prov'd not theirs, The Cloyster yet remained hers. Though many a Nun there made her vow, 'Twas no Religious-House till now. From that blest Bed the Heroe came, Whom France and Poland yet does fame: Who, when retired here to Peace, His warlike Studies could not cease; But laid these Gardens out in sport In the just Figure of a Fort; And with five Bastions it did fence, As aiming one for ev'ry Sense. When in the East the Morning Ray Hangs out the Colours of the Day, The Bee through these known Allies hums, Beating the Dian with its Drumms. Then Flow'rs their drowsie Eylids raise, Their Silken Ensigns each displayes, And dries its Pan yet dank with Dew, And fills its Flask with Odours new. 195 These, as their Governour goes by, In fragrant Vollyes they let fly; And to salute their Governess Again as great a charge they press: None for the Virgin Nymph; for She Seems with the Flow'rs a Flow'r to be. And think so still! though not compare With Breath so sweet, or Cheek so faire. Well shot ye Fireman! Oh how sweet, And round your equal Fires do meet; Whose shrill report no Ear can tell, But Ecchoes to the Eye and smell. See how the Flow'rs, as at Parade, Under their Colours stand displaid: Each Regiment in order grows, That of the Tulip Pinke and Rose. But when the vigilant Patroul Of Stars walks round about the Pole, Their Leaves, that to the stalks are curl'd, Seem to their Staves the Ensigns furl'd. Then in some Flow'rs beloved Hut Each Bee as Sentinel is shut; And sleeps so too: but, if once stir'd, She runs you through, or askes The Word. Oh Thou, that dear and happy Isle The Garden of the World ere while, Thou Paradise of four Seas, Which Heaven planted us to please, But, to exclude the World, did guard With watry if not flaming Sword; What luckless Apple did we tast, To make us Mortal, and The Wast. Unhappy! shall we never more That sweet Milltia restore, When Gardens only had their Towrs, And all the Garrisons were Flow'rs, When Roses only Arms might bear, And Men did rosie Garlands wear? 196 Tulips, in several Colours barr'd, Were then the Switzers of our Guard. The Gardiner had the Souldiers place, And his more gentle Forts did trace. The Nursery of all things green Was then the only Magazeen. The Winter Quarters were the Stoves, Where he the tender Plants removes. But War all this doth overgrow: We Ord'nance Plant and Powder sow. And yet their walks one on the Sod Who, had it pleased him and God, Might once have made our Gardens spring Fresh as his own and flourishing. But he preferr'd to the Cinque Ports These five imaginary Forts: And, in those half-dry Trenches, spann'd Pow'r which the Ocean might command. For he did, with his utmost Skill, Ambition weed, but Conscience till. Conscience, that Heaven-nursed Plant, Which most our Earthly Gardens want. A prickling leaf it bears, and such As that which shrinks at ev'ry touch; But Flow'rs eternal, and divine, That in the Crowns of Saints do shine. The sight does from these Bastions ply, Th' invisible Artilery; And at proud Cawood Castle seems To point the Battery of its Beams. As if it quarrell'd in the Seat Th' Ambition of its Prelate great. But ore the Meads below it plays, Or innocently seems to gaze. And now to the Abbyss I pass Of that unfathomable Grass, Where Men like Grashoppers appear, 197 But Grashoppers are Gyants there: They, in there squeking Laugh, contemn Us as we walk more low then them: And, from the Precipices tall Of the green spir's, to us do call. To see Men through this Meadow Dive, We wonder how they rise alive. As, under Water, none does know Whether he fall through it or go. But, as the Marriners that sound, And show upon their Lead the Ground, They bring up Flow'rs so to be seen, And prove they've at the Bottom been. No Scene that turns with Engines strange Does oftner then these Meadows change, For when the Sun the Grass hath vext, The tawny Mowers enter next; Who seem like Israaliies to be, Walking on foot through a green Sea. To them the Grassy Deeps divide, And crowd a Lane to either Side. With whistling Sithe, and Elbow strong, These Massacre the Grass along: While one, unknowing, carves the Rail, Whose yet unfeather'd Quils her fail. The Edge all bloody from its Breast He draws, and does his stroke detest; Fearing the Flesh untimely mow'd To him a Fate as black forebode. But bloody Thestylis, that waites To bring the mowing Camp their Cates, Greedy as Kites has trust it up, And forthwith means on it to sup: When on another quick She lights, And cryes, he call'd us Israelites; But now, to make his saying true, Rails rain for Quails, for Manna Dew. 198 Unhappy Birds! what does it boot To build below the Grasses Root; When Lowness is unsafe as Hight, And Chance o'retakes what scapeth spight? And now your Orphan Parents Call Sounds your untimely Funeral. Death-Trumpets creak in such a Note, And 'tis the Sourdine in their Throat. Or sooner hatch or higher build: The Mower now commands the Field; In whose new Traverse seemeth wrought A Camp of Battail newly fought: Where, as the Meads with Hay, the Plain Lyes quilted ore with Bodies slain: The Women that with forks it filing, Do represent the Pillaging. And now the careless Victors play, Dancing the Triumphs of the Hay; Where every Mowers wholesome Heat Smells like an Alexanders Sweat. Their Females fragrant as the Mead Which they in Fairy Circles tread: When at their Dances End they kiss, Their new-made Hay not sweeter is. When after this 'tis pil'd in Cocks, Like a calm Sea it shews the Rocks: We wondring in the River near How Boats among them safely steer. Or, like the Desert Memphis Sand, Short Pyramids of Hay do stand. And such the Roman Camps do rise In Hills for Soldiers Obsequies. This Scene again withdrawing brings A new and empty Face of things; A levell'd space, as smooth and plain, As Clothes for Lilly strecht to stain. The World when first created sure Was such a Table rase and pure. 199 Or rather such is the Toril Ere the Bulls enter at Madril. For to this naked equal Flat, Which Levellers take Pattern at, The Villagers in common chase Their Cattle, which it closer rase; And what below the Sith increast Is pincht yet nearer by the Breast. Such, in the painted World, appear'd Davenant with th'Universal Heard. They seem within the polisht Grass A landskip drawen in Looking-Glass. And shrunk in the huge Pasture show As spots, so shap'd, on Faces do. Such Fleas, ere they approach the Eye, In Multiplyiug Glasses lye. They feed so wide, so slowly move, As Constellatious do above. Then, to conclude these pleasant Acts, Denton sets ope its Cataracts; And makes the Meadow truly be (What it but seem'd before) a Sea. For, jealous of its Lords long stay, It try's t'invite him thus away. The River in it self is drown'd, And Isl's th' astonish Cattle round. Let others tell the Paradox, How Eels now bellow in the Ox; How Horses at their Tails do kick, Turn'd as they hang to Leeches quick; How Boats can over Bridges sail; And Fishes do the Stables scale. How Salmons trespassing are found; And Pikes are taken in the Pound. But I, retiring from the Flood, Take Sanctuary in the Wood; And, while it lasts, my self imbark 200 In this yet green, yet growing Ark; Where the first Carpenter might best Fit Timber for his Keel have Prest. And where all Creatures might have shares, Although in Armies, not in Paires. The double Wood of ancient Stocks Link'd in so thick, an Union locks, It like two Pedigrees appears, On one hand Fairfax, th' other Veres: Of whom though many fell in War, Yet more to Heaven shooting are: And, as they Natures Cradle deckt, Will in green Age her Hearse expect. When first the Eye this Forrest sees It seems indeed as Wood not Trees: As if their Neighbourhood so old To one great Trunk them all did mold. There the huge Bulk takes place, as ment To thrust up a Fifth Element; And stretches still so closely wedg'd As if the Night within were hedg'd. Dark all without it knits; within It opens passable and thin; And in as loose an order grows, As the Corinthean Porticoes. The Arching Boughs unite between The Columnes of the Temple green; And underneath the winged Quires Echo about their tuned Fires. The Nightingale does here make choice To sing the Tryals of her Voice. Low Shrubs she sits in, and adorns With Musick high the squatted Thorns. But highest Oakes stoop down to hear, And listning Elders prick the Ear. The Thorn, lest it should hurt her, draws Within the Skin its shrunken claws. 201 But I have for my Musick found A Sadder, yet more pleasing Sound: The Stock-doves whose fair necks are grac'd With Nuptial Rings their Ensigns chast; Yet always, for some Cause unknown, Sad pair unto the Elms they moan. O why should such a Couple mourn, That in so equal Flames do burn! Then as I carless on the Bed Of gelid Straw-berryes do tread, And through the Hazles thick espy The hatching Thrastles shining Eye, The Heron from the Ashes top, The eldest of its young lets drop, As if it Stork-like did pretend That Tribute to its Lord to send. But most the Hewel's wonders are, Who here has the Holt-felsters care. He walks still upright from the Root, Meas'ring the Timber with his Foot; And all the way, to keep it clean, Doth from the Bark the Wood-moths glean. He, with his Beak, examines well Which fit to stand and which to fell. The good he numbers up, and hacks; As if he mark'd them with the Ax. But where he, tinkling with his Beak, Does find the hollow Oak to speak, That for his building he designs, And through the tainted Side he mines. Who could have thought the tallest Oak Should fall by such a feeble Strok'! Nor would it, had the Tree not fed A Traitor-worm, within it bred. (As first our Flesh corrupt within Tempts impotent and bashful Sin. And yet that Worm triumphs not long, But serves to feed the Hewels young. 202 While the Oake seems to fall content, Viewing the Treason's Punishment. Thus I, easie Philosopher, Among the Birds and Trees confer: And little now to make me, wants Or of the Fowles, or of the Plants. Give me but Wings as they, and I Streight floting on the Air shall fly: Or turn me but, and you shall see I was but an inverted Tree. Already I begin to call In their most-learned Original: And where I Language want,my Signs The Bird upon the Bough divines; And more attentive there doth sit Then if She were with Lime-twigs knit. No Leaf does tremble in the Wind Which I returning cannot find. Out of these scatter'd Sibyls Leaves Strange Prophecies my Phancy weaves: And in one History consumes, Like Mexique Paintings, all the Plumes. What Rome, Greece, Palestine, ere said I in this light Mosaick read. Thrice happy he who, not mistook, Hath read in Natures mystick Book. And see how Chance's better Wit Could with a Mask my studies hit! The Oak-Leaves me embroyder all, Between which Caterpillars crawl: And Ivy, with familiar trails, Me licks, and clasps, and curles, and hales. Under this antick Cope I move Like some great Prelate of the Grove, Then, languishing with ease, I toss On Pallets swoln of Velvet Moss; While the Wind, cooling through the Boughs, 203 Flatters with Air my panting Brows. Thanks for my Rest ye Mossy Banks, And unto you cool Zephyr's Thanks, Who, as my Hair, my Thoughts too shed, And winnow from the Chaff my Head. How safe, methinks, and strong, behind These Trees have I incamp'd my Mind; Where Beauty, aiming at the Heart, Bends in some Tree its useless Dart; And where the World no certain Shot Can make, or me it toucheth not. But I on it securely play, And gaul its Horsemen all the Day. Bind me ye Woodbines in your 'twines, Curle me about ye gadding Vines, And Oh so close your Circles lace, That I may never leave this Place: But, lest your Fetters prove too weak, Ere I your Silken Bondage break, Do you, O Brambles, chain me too, And courteous Briars nail me though. Here in the Morning tye my Chain, Where the two Woods have made a Lane; While, like a Guard on either side, The Trees before their Lord divide; This, like a long and equal Thread, Betwixt two Labyrinths does lead. But, where the Floods did lately drown, There at the Ev'ning stake me down. For now the Waves are fal'n and dry'd, And now the Meadows fresher dy'd; Whose Grass, with moister colour dasht, Seems as green Silks but newly washt. No Serpent new nor Crocodile Remains behind our little Nile; Unless it self you will mistake, Among these Meads the only Snake. 204 See in what wanton harmless folds It ev'ry where the Meadow holds; And its yet muddy back doth lick, Till as a Chrystal Mirrour slick; Where all things gaze themselves, and doubt If they be in it or without. And for his shade which therein shines, Narcissus like, the Sun too pines. Oh what a Pleasure 'tis to hedge My Temples here with heavy sedge; Abandoning my lazy Side, Stretcht as a Bank unto the Tide; Or to suspend my sliding Foot On the Osiers undermined Root, And in its Branches tough to hang, While at my Lines the Fishes twang! But now away my Hooks, my Quills, And Angles, idle Utensils. The Young Maria walks to night: Hide trifling Youth thy Pleasures slight. 'Twere shame that such judicious Eyes Should with such Toyes a Man surprize; She that already is the Law Of all her Sex, her Ages Aw. See how loose Nature, in respect To her, it self doth recollect; And every thing so whisht and fine, Starts forth with to its Bonne Mine. The Sun himself, of Her aware, Seems to descend with greater Care, And lest She see him go to Bed, In blushing Clouds conceales his Head. So when the Shadows laid asleep From underneath these Banks do creep, And on the River as it flows With Eben Shuts begin to close; The modest Halcyon comes in sight, Flying betwixt the Day and Night; 205 And such an horror calm and dumb, Admiring Nature does benum. The viscous Air, wheres'ere She fly, Follows and sucks her Azure dy; The gellying Stream compacts below, If it might fix her shadow so; The Stupid Fishes hang, as plain As Flies in Chrystal overt'ane, And Men the silent Scene assist, Charm'd with the saphir-winged Mist. Maria such, and so doth hush The World, and through the Ev'ning rush. No new-born Comet such a Train Draws through the Skie, nor Star new-slain. For streight those giddy Rockets fail, Which from the putrid Earth exhale, But by her Flames, in Heaven try'd, Nature is wholly Vitrifi'd. 'Tis She that to these Gardens gave That wondrous Beauty which they have; She streightness on the Woods bestows; To Her the Meadow sweetness owes; Nothing could make the River be So Chrystal-pure but only She; She yet more Pure, Sweet, Streight, and Fair, Then Gardens, Woods, Meads, Rivers are. Therefore what first She on them spent, They gratefully again present. The Meadow Carpets where to tread; The Garden Flow'rs to Crown Her Head; And for a Glass the limpid Brook, Where She may all her Beautyes look; But, since She would not have them seen, The Wood about her draws a Skreen. For She, to higher Beauties rais'd, Disdains to be for lesser prais'd. She counts her Beauty to converse 206 In all the Languages as hers; Not yet in those her self imployes But for the Wisdome, not the Noyse; Nor yet that Wisdome would affect, But as 'tis Heavens Dialect. Blest Nymph! that couldst so soon prevent Those Trains by Youth against thee meant; Tears (watry Shot that pierce the Mind;) And Sighs (Loves Cannon charg'd with Wind;) True Praise (That breaks through all defence;) And feign'd complying Innocence; But knowing where this Ambush lay, She scap'd the safe, but roughest Way. This 'tis to have been from the first In a Domestick Heaven nurst, Under the Discipline severe Of Fairfax, and the starry Vere; Where not one object can come nigh But pure, and spotless as the Eye; And Goodness doth it self intail On Females, if there want a Male. Go now fond Sex that on your Face Do all your useless Study place, Nor once at Vice your Brows dare knit Lest the smooth Forehead wrinkled sit Yet your own Face shall at you grin, Thorough the Black-bag of your Skin; When knowledge only could have fill'd And Virtue all those Furows till'd. Hence She with Graces more divine Supplies beyond her Sex the Line; And, like a sprig of Misleto, On the Fairfacian Oak does grow; Whence, for some universal good, The Priest shall cut the sacred Bud; While her glad Parents most rejoice, And make their Destiny their Choice. 207 Mean time ye Fields, Springs, Bushes, Flow'rs, Where yet She leads her studious Hours, (Till Fate her worthily translates, And find a Fairfax for our Thwaites) Employ the means you have by Her, And in your kind your selves preferr; That, as all Virgins She preceds, So you all Woods, Streams, Gardens, Meads. For you Thessalian Tempe's Seat Shall now be scorn'd as obsolete; Aranjeuz, as less, disdain'd; The Bel-Retiro as constrain'd; But name not the Idalian Grove, For 'twas the Seat of wanton Love; Much less the Dead's Elysian Fields, Yet nor to them your Beauty yields. 'Tis not, what once it was, the World; But a rude heap together hurl'd; All negligently overthrown, Gulfes, Deserts, Precipices, Stone. Your lesser World contains the same. But in more decent Order tame; You Heaven's Center, Nature's Lap. And Paradice's only Map. But now the Salmon-Fishers moist Their Leathern Boats begin to hoist; And, like Antipodes in Shoes, Have shod their Heads in their Canoos. How Tortoise like, but not so slow, These rational Amphibii go? Let's in: for the dark Hemisphere Does now like one of them appear. ~ Andrew Marvell,

875:The Botanic Garden (Part Iv) The Economy Of Vegetation Canto IV As when at noon in Hybla's fragrant bowers CACALIA opens all her honey'd flowers; Contending swarms on bending branches cling, And nations hover on aurelian wing; So round the GODDESS, ere she speaks, on high Impatient SYLPHS in gawdy circlets fly; Quivering in air their painted plumes expand, And coloured shadows dance upon the land. I. 'SYLPHS! YOUR light troops the tropic Winds confine, And guide their streaming arrows to the Line; While in warm floods ecliptic breezes rise, And sink with wings benumb'd in colder skies. You bid Monsoons on Indian seas reside, And veer, as moves the sun, their airy tide; While southern gales o'er western oceans roll, And Eurus steals his ice-winds from the Pole. Your playful trains, on sultry islands born, Turn on fantastic toe at eve and morn; With soft susurrant voice alternate sweep Earth's green pavilions and encircling deep. OR in itinerant cohorts, borne sublime On tides of ether, float from clime to clime; O'er waving Autumn bend your airy ring, Or waft the fragrant bosom of the Spring. II. 'When Morn, escorted by the dancing Hours, O'er the bright plains her dewy lustre showers; Till from her sable chariot Eve serene Drops the dark curtain o'er the brilliant scene; You form with chemic hands the airy surge, Mix with broad vans, with shadowy tridents urge. SYLPHS! from each sun-bright leaf, that twinkling shakes O'er Earth's green lap, or shoots amid her lakes, Your playful bands with simpering lips invite, 10 And wed the enamour'd OXYGENE to LIGHT.Round their white necks with fingers interwove, Cling the fond Pair with unabating love; Hand link'd in hand on buoyant step they rise, And soar and glisten in unclouded skies. Whence in bright floods the VITAL AIR expands, And with concentric spheres involves the lands; Pervades the swarming seas, and heaving earths, Where teeming Nature broods her myriad births; Fills the fine lungs of all that breathe or bud Warms the new heart, and dyes the gushing blood; With Life's first spark inspires the organic frame, And, as it wastes, renews the subtile flame. 'So pure, so soft, with sweet attraction shone Fair PSYCHE, kneeling at the ethereal throne; Won with coy smiles the admiring court of Jove, And warm'd the bosom of unconquer'd LOVE.Beneath a moving shade of fruits and flowers Onward they march to HYMEN'S sacred bowers; With lifted torch he lights the festive train, Sublime, and leads them in his golden chain; Joins the fond pair, indulgent to their vows, And hides with mystic veil their blushing brows. Round their fair forms their mingling arms they fling, Meet with warm lip, and clasp with rustling wing.-Hence plastic Nature, as Oblivion whelms Her fading forms, repeoples all her realms; Soft Joys disport on purple plumes unfurl'd, And Love and Beauty rule the willing world. III. 1. 'SYLPHS! Your bold myriads on the withering heath Stay the fell SYROC'S suffocative breath; Arrest SIMOOM in his realms of sand, The poisoned javelin balanced in his hand;Fierce on blue streams he rides the tainted air, Points his keen eye, and waves his whistling hair; While, as he turns, the undulating soil Rolls in red waves, and billowy deserts boil. 11 You seize TORNADO by his locks of mist, Burst his dense clouds, his wheeling spires untwist; Wide o'er the West when borne on headlong gales, Dark as meridian night, the Monster sails, Howls high in air, and shakes his curled brow, Lashing with serpent-train the waves below, Whirls his black arm, the forked lightning flings, And showers a deluge from his demon-wings. 2. 'SYLPHS! with light shafts YOU pierce the drowsy FOG, That lingering slumbers on the sedge-wove bog, With webbed feet o'er midnight meadows creeps, Or flings his hairy limbs on stagnant deeps. YOU meet CONTAGION issuing from afar, And dash the baleful conqueror from his car; When, Guest of DEATH! from charnel vaults he steals, And bathes in human gore his armed wheels. 'Thus when the PLAGUE, upborne on Belgian air, Look'd through the mist and shook his clotted hair, O'er shrinking nations steer'd malignant clouds, And rain'd destruction on the gasping crouds. The beauteous AEGLE felt the venom'd dart, Slow roll'd her eye, and feebly throbb'd her heart; Each fervid sigh seem'd shorter than the last, And starting Friendship shunn'd her, as she pass'd. -With weak unsteady step the fainting Maid Seeks the cold garden's solitary shade, Sinks on the pillowy moss her drooping head, And prints with lifeless limbs her leafy bed. -On wings of Love her plighted Swain pursues, Shades her from winds, and shelters her from dews, Extends on tapering poles the canvas roof, Spreads o'er the straw-wove matt the flaxen woof, Sweet buds and blossoms on her bolster strows, And binds his kerchief round her aching brows; Sooths with soft kiss, with tender accents charms, And clasps the bright Infection in his arms.With pale and languid smiles the grateful Fair Applauds his virtues, and rewards his care; Mourns with wet cheek her fair companions fled On timorous step, or number'd with the dead; Calls to its bosom all its scatter'd rays, And pours on THYRSIS the collected blaze; 12 Braves the chill night, caressing and caress'd, And folds her Hero-lover to her breast.Less bold, LEANDER at the dusky hour Eyed, as he swam, the far love-lighted tower; Breasted with struggling arms the tossing wave, And sunk benighted in the watery grave. Less bold, TOBIAS claim'd the nuptial bed, Where seven fond Lovers by a Fiend had bled; And drove, instructed by his Angel-Guide, The enamour'd Demon from the fatal bride.-SYLPHS! while your winnowing pinions fan'd the air, And shed gay visions o'er the sleeping pair; LOVE round their couch effused his rosy breath, And with his keener arrows conquer'd DEATH. IV. 1. 'You charm'd, indulgent SYLPHS! their learned toil, And crown'd with fame your TORRICELL, and BOYLE; Taught with sweet smiles, responsive to their prayer, The spring and pressure of the viewless air. -How up exhausted tubes bright currents flow Of liquid silver from the lake below, Weigh the long column of the incumbent skies, And with the changeful moment fall and rise. -How, as in brazen pumps the pistons move, The membrane-valve sustains the weight above; Stroke follows stroke, the gelid vapour falls, And misty dew-drops dim the crystal walls; Rare and more rare expands the fluid thin, And Silence dwells with Vacancy within.So in the mighty Void with grim delight Primeval Silence reign'd with ancient Night. 2. 'SYLPHS! your soft voices, whispering from the skies, Bade from low earth the bold MONGULFIER rise; Outstretch'd his buoyant ball with airy spring, And bore the Sage on levity of wing;Where were ye, SYLPHS! when on the ethereal main Young ROSIERE launch'd, and call'd your aid in vain? Fair mounts the light balloon, by Zephyr driven, Parts the thin clouds, and sails along the heaven; Higher and yet higher the expanding bubble flies, Lights with quick flash, and bursts amid the skies.Headlong He rushes through the affrighted air 13 With limbs distorted, and dishevel'd hair, Whirls round and round, the flying croud alarms, And DEATH receives him in his sable arms!So erst with melting wax and loosen'd strings Sunk hapless ICARUS on unfaithful wings; His scatter'd plumage danced upon the wave, And sorrowing Mermaids deck'd his watery grave; O'er his pale corse their pearly sea-flowers shed, And strew'd with crimson moss his marble bed; Struck in their coral towers the pausing bell, And wide in ocean toll'd his echoing knell. V. 'SYLPHS! YOU, retiring to sequester'd bowers, Where oft your PRIESTLEY woos your airy powers, On noiseless step or quivering pinion glide, As sits the Sage with Science by his side; To his charm'd eye in gay undress appear, Or pour your secrets on his raptured ear. How nitrous Gas from iron ingots driven Drinks with red lips the purest breath of heaven; How, while Conferva from its tender hair Gives in bright bubbles empyrean air; The crystal floods phlogistic ores calcine, And the pure ETHER marries with the MINE. 'So in Sicilia's ever-blooming shade When playful PROSERPINE from CERES stray'd, Led with unwary step her virgin trains O'er Etna's steeps, and Enna's golden plains; Pluck'd with fair hand the silver-blossom'd bower, And purpled mead,-herself a fairer flower; Sudden, unseen amid the twilight glade, Rush'd gloomy DIS, and seized the trembling maid.Her starting damsels sprung from mossy seats, Dropp'd from their gauzy laps the gather'd sweets, Clung round the struggling Nymph, with piercing cries, Pursued the chariot, and invoked the skies;Pleased as he grasps her in his iron arms, Frights with soft sighs, with tender words alarms, The wheels descending roll'd in smoky rings, Infernal Cupids flapp'd their demon wings; Earth with deep yawn received the Fair, amaz'd, And far in Night celestial Beauty blaz'd. 14 VI. 'Led by the Sage, Lo! Britain's sons shall guide Huge SEA-BALLOONS beneath the tossing tide; The diving castles, roof'd with spheric glass, Ribb'd with strong oak, and barr'd with bolts of brass, Buoy'd with pure air shall endless tracks pursue, And PRIESTLEY'S hand the vital flood renew.Then shall BRITANNIA rule the wealthy realms, Which Ocean's wide insatiate wave o'erwhelms; Confine in netted bowers his scaly flocks, Part his blue plains, and people all his rocks. Deep, in warm waves beneath the Line that roll, Beneath the shadowy ice-isles of the Pole, Onward, through bright meandering vales, afar, Obedient Sharks shall trail her sceptred car, With harness'd necks the pearly flood disturb, Stretch the silk rein, and champ the silver curb; Pleased round her triumph wondering Tritons play, And Seamaids hail her on the watery way. -Oft shall she weep beneath the crystal waves O'er shipwreck'd lovers weltering in their graves; Mingling in death the Brave and Good behold With slaves to glory, and with slaves to gold; Shrin'd in the deep shall DAY and SPALDING mourn, Each in his treacherous bell, sepulchral urn!Oft o'er thy lovely daughters, hapless PIERCE! Her sighs shall breathe, her sorrows dew their hearse.With brow upturn'd to Heaven, 'WE WILL NOT PART!' He cried, and clasp'd them to his aching heart,-Dash'd in dread conflict on the rocky grounds, Crash the mock'd masts, the staggering wreck rebounds; Through gaping seams the rushing deluge swims, Chills their pale bosoms, bathes their shuddering limbs, Climbs their white shoulders, buoys their streaming hair, And the last sea-shriek bellows in the air.Each with loud sobs her tender sire caress'd, And gasping strain'd him closer to her breast!-Stretch'd on one bier they sleep beneath the brine, And their white bones with ivory arms intwine! 'VII. SYLPHS OF NICE EAR! with beating wings you guide The fine vibrations of the aerial tide; 15 Join in sweet cadences the measured words, Or stretch and modulate the trembling cords. You strung to melody the Grecian lyre, Breathed the rapt song, and fan'd the thought of fire, Or brought in combinations, deep and clear, Immortal harmony to HANDEL'S ear.YOU with soft breath attune the vernal gale, When breezy evening broods the listening vale; Or wake the loud tumultuous sounds, that dwell In Echo's many-toned diurnal shell. YOU melt in dulcet chords, when Zephyr rings The Eolian Harp, and mingle all its strings; Or trill in air the soft symphonious chime, When rapt CECILIA lifts her eye sublime, Swell, as she breathes, her bosoms rising snow, O'er her white teeth in tuneful accents slow, Through her fair lips on whispering pinions move, And form the tender sighs, that kindle love! 'So playful LOVE on Ida's flowery sides With ribbon-rein the indignant Lion guides; Pleased on his brinded back the lyre he rings, And shakes delirious rapture from the strings; Slow as the pausing Monarch stalks along, Sheaths his retractile claws, and drinks the song; Soft Nymphs on timid step the triumph view, And listening Fawns with beating hoofs pursue; With pointed ears the alarmed forest starts, And Love and Music soften savage hearts. VIII. 'SYLPHS! YOUR bold hosts, when Heaven with justice dread Calls the red tempest round the guilty head, Fierce at his nod assume vindictive forms, And launch from airy cars the vollied storms.From Ashur's vales when proud SENACHERIB trod, Pour'd his swoln heart, defied the living GOD, Urged with incessant shouts his glittering powers; And JUDAH shook through all her massy towers; Round her sad altars press'd the prostrate crowd, Hosts beat their breasts, and suppliant chieftains bow'd; Loud shrieks of matrons thrill'd the troubled air, And trembling virgins rent their scatter'd hair; High in the midst the kneeling King adored, 16 Spread the blaspheming scroll before the Lord, Raised his pale hands, and breathed his pausing sighs, And fixed on Heaven his dim imploring eyes,'Oh! MIGHTY GOD! amidst thy Seraph-throng 'Who sit'st sublime, the Judge of Right and Wrong; 'Thine the wide earth, bright sun, and starry zone, 'That twinkling journey round thy golden throne; 'Thine is the crystal source of life and light, 'And thine the realms of Death's eternal night. 'Oh, bend thine ear, thy gracious eye incline, 'Lo! Ashur's King blasphemes thy holy shrine, 'Insults our offerings, and derides our vows,-'Oh! strike the diadem from his impious brows, 'Tear from his murderous hand the bloody rod, 'And teach the trembling nations, 'THOU ART GOD!'-SYLPHS! in what dread array with pennons broad Onward ye floated o'er the ethereal road, Call'd each dank steam the reeking marsh exhales, Contagious vapours, and volcanic gales, Gave the soft South with poisonous breath to blow, And rolled the dreadful whirlwind on the foe!Hark! o'er the camp the venom'd tempest sings, Man falls on Man, on buckler buckler rings; Groan answers groan, to anguish anguish yields, And DEATH'S loud accents shake the tented fields! -High rears the Fiend his grinning jaws, and wide Spans the pale nations with colossal stride, Waves his broad falchion with uplifted hand, And his vast shadow darkens all the land. IX. 1. 'Ethereal cohorts! Essences of Air! Make the green children of the Spring your care! Oh, SYLPHS! disclose in this inquiring age One GOLDEN SECRET to some favour'd sage; Grant the charm'd talisman, the chain, that binds, Or guides the changeful pinions of the winds! -No more shall hoary Boreas, issuing forth With Eurus, lead the tempests of the North; Rime the pale Dawn, or veil'd in flaky showers Chill the sweet bosoms of the smiling Hours. By whispering Auster waked shall Zephyr rise, Meet with soft kiss, and mingle in the skies, 17 Fan the gay floret, bend the yellow ear, And rock the uncurtain'd cradle of the year; Autumn and Spring in lively union blend, And from the skies the Golden Age descend. 2. 'Castled on ice, beneath the circling Bear, A vast CAMELION spits and swallows air; O'er twelve degrees his ribs gigantic bend, And many a league his leathern jaws extend; Half-fish, beneath, his scaly volutes spread, And vegetable plumage crests his head; Huge fields of air his wrinkled skin receives, From panting gills, wide lungs, and waving leaves; Then with dread throes subsides his bloated form, His shriek the thunder, and his sigh the storm. Oft high in heaven the hissing Demon wins His towering course, upborne on winnowing fins; Steers with expanded eye and gaping mouth, His mass enormous to the affrighted South; Spreads o'er the shuddering Line his shadowy limbs, And Frost and Famine follow as he swims.SYLPHS! round his cloud-built couch your bands array, And mould the Monster to your gentle sway; Charm with soft tones, with tender touches check, Bend to your golden yoke his willing neck, With silver curb his yielding teeth restrain, And give to KIRWAN'S hand the silken rein. -Pleased shall the Sage, the dragon-wings between, Bend o'er discordant climes his eye serene, With Lapland breezes cool Arabian vales, And call to Hindostan antarctic gales, Adorn with wreathed ears Kampschatca's brows, And scatter roses on Zealandic snows, Earth's wondering Zones the genial seasons share, And nations hail him 'MONARCH OF THE AIR.' X. 1. 'SYLPHS! as you hover on ethereal wing, Brood the green children of parturient Spring!Where in their bursting cells my Embryons rest, I charge you guard the vegetable nest; Count with nice eye the myriad SEEDS, that swell Each vaulted womb of husk, or pod, or shell; Feed with sweet juices, clothe with downy hair, 18 Or hang, inshrined, their little orbs in air. 'So, late descry'd by HERSCHEL'S piercing sight, Hang the bright squadrons of the twinkling Night; Ten thousand marshall'd stars, a silver zone, Effuse their blended lustres round her throne; Suns call to suns, in lucid clouds conspire, And light exterior skies with golden fire; Resistless rolls the illimitable sphere, And one great circle forms the unmeasured year. -Roll on, YE STARS! exult in youthful prime, Mark with bright curves the printless steps of Time; Near and more near your beamy cars approach, And lessening orbs on lessening orbs encroach;Flowers of the sky! ye too to age must yield, Frail as your silken sisters of the field! Star after star from Heaven's high arch shall rush, Suns sink on suns, and systems systems crush, Headlong, extinct, to one dark centre fall, And Death and Night and Chaos mingle all! -Till o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm, Immortal NATURE lifts her changeful form, Mounts from her funeral pyre on wings of flame, And soars and shines, another and the same. 2. 'Lo! on each SEED within its slender rind Life's golden threads in endless circles wind; Maze within maze the lucid webs are roll'd, And, as they burst, the living flame unfold. The pulpy acorn, ere it swells, contains The Oak's vast branches in its milky veins; Each ravel'd bud, fine film, and fibre-line Traced with nice pencil on the small design. The young Narcissus, in it's bulb compress'd, Cradles a second nestling on its breast; In whose fine arms a younger embryon lies, Folds its thin leaves, and shuts its floret-eyes; Grain within grain successive harvests dwell, And boundless forests slumber in a shell. -So yon grey precipice, and ivy'd towers, Long winding meads, and intermingled bowers, Green files of poplars, o'er the lake that bow, And glimmering wheel, which rolls and foams below, In one bright point with nice distinction lie 19 Plan'd on the moving tablet of the eye. -So, fold on fold, Earth's wavy plains extend, And, sphere in sphere, its hidden strata bend;Incumbent Spring her beamy plumes expands O'er restless oceans, and impatient lands, With genial lustres warms the mighty ball, And the GREAT SEED evolves, disclosing ALL; LIFE buds or breathes from Indus to the Poles, And the vast surface kindles, as it rolls! 3. 'Come, YE SOFT SYLPHS! who sport on Latian land, Come, sweet-lip'd Zephyr, and Favonius bland! Teach the fine SEED, instinct with life, to shoot On Earth's cold bosom its descending root; With Pith elastic stretch its rising stem, Part the twin Lobes, expand the throbbing Gem; Clasp in your airy arms the aspiring Plume, Fan with your balmy breath its kindling bloom, Each widening scale and bursting film unfold, Swell the green cup, and tint the flower with gold; While in bright veins the silvery Sap ascends, And refluent blood in milky eddies bends; While, spread in air, the leaves respiring play, Or drink the golden quintessence of day. -So from his shell on Delta's shower-less isle Bursts into life the Monster of the Nile; First in translucent lymph with cobweb-threads The Brain's fine floating tissue swells, and spreads; Nerve after nerve the glistening spine descends, The red Heart dances, the Aorta bends; Through each new gland the purple current glides, New veins meandering drink the refluent tides; Edge over edge expands the hardening scale, And sheaths his slimy skin in silver mail. -Erewhile, emerging from the brooding sand, With Tyger-paw He prints the brineless strand, High on the flood with speckled bosom swims, Helm'd with broad tail, and oar'd with giant limbs; Rolls his fierce eye-balls, clasps his iron claws, 20 And champs with gnashing teeth his massy jaws; Old Nilus sighs along his cane-crown'd shores, And swarthy Memphis trembles and adores. XI. 'Come, YE SOFT SYLPHS! who fan the Paphian groves, And bear on sportive wings the callow Loves; Call with sweet whisper, in each gale that blows, The slumbering Snow-drop from her long repose; Charm the pale Primrose from her clay-cold bed, Unveil the bashful Violet's tremulous head; While from her bud the playful Tulip breaks, And young Carnations peep with blushing cheeks; Bid the closed Petals from nocturnal cold The virgin Style in silken curtains fold, Shake into viewless air the morning dews, And wave in light their iridescent hues; While from on high the bursting Anthers trust To the mild breezes their prolific dust; Or bend in rapture o'er the central Fair, Love out their hour, and leave their lives in air. So in his silken sepulchre the Worm, Warm'd with new life, unfolds his larva-form; Erewhile aloft in wanton circles moves, And woos on Hymen-wings his velvet loves. XII. 1. 'If prouder branches with exuberance rude Point their green gems, their barren shoots protrude; Wound them, ye SYLPHS! with little knives, or bind A wiry ringlet round the swelling rind; Bisect with chissel fine the root below, Or bend to earth the inhospitable bough. So shall each germ with new prolific power Delay the leaf-bud, and expand the flower; Closed in the Style the tender pith shall end, 21 The lengthening Wood in circling Stamens bend; The smoother Rind its soft embroidery spread In vaulted Petals o'er their fertile bed; While the rough Bark, in circling mazes roll'd, Forms the green Cup with many a wrinkled fold; And each small bud-scale spreads its foliage hard, Firm round the callow germ, a Floral Guard 2. 'Where cruder juices swell the leafy vein, Stint the young germ, the tender blossom stain; On each lop'd shoot a softer scion bind, Pith press'd to pith, and rind applied to rind, So shall the trunk with loftier crest ascend, And wide in air its happier arms extend; Nurse the new buds, admire the leaves unknown, And blushing bend with fruitage not its own. 'Thus when in holy triumph Aaron trod, And offer'd on the shrine his mystic rod; First a new bark its silken tissue weaves, New buds emerging widen into leaves; Fair fruits protrude, enascent flowers expand, And blush and tremble round the living wand. XIII. 1. 'SYLPHS! on each Oak-bud wound the wormy galls, With pigmy spears, or crush the venom'd balls; Fright the green Locust from his foamy bed, Unweave the Caterpillar's gluey thread; Chase the fierce Earwig, scare the bloated Toad, Arrest the snail upon his slimy road; Arm with sharp thorns the Sweet-brier's tender wood, And dash the Cynips from her damask bud; Steep in ambrosial dews the Woodbine's bells, And drive the Night-moth from her honey'd cells. So where the Humming-bird in Chili's bowers On murmuring pinions robs the pendent flowers; 22 Seeks, where fine pores their dulcet balm distill, And sucks the treasure with proboscis-bill; Fair CYPREPEDIA with successful guile Knits her smooth brow, extinguishes her smile; A Spiders bloated paunch and jointed arms Hide her fine form, and mask her blushing charms; In ambush sly the mimic warrior lies, And on quick wing the panting plunderer flies. 2. 'Shield the young Harvest from devouring blight, The Smut's dark poison, and the Mildew white; Deep-rooted Mould, and Ergot's horn uncouth, And break the Canker's desolating tooth. First in one point the festering wound confin'd Mines unperceived beneath the shrivel'd rin'd; Then climbs the branches with increasing strength, Spreads as they spread, and lengthens with their length; -Thus the slight wound ingraved on glass unneal'd Runs in white lines along the lucid field; Crack follows crack, to laws elastic just, And the frail fabric shivers into dust. XIV. 1. 'SYLPHS! if with morn destructive Eurus springs, O, clasp the Harebel with your velvet wings; Screen with thick leaves the Jasmine as it blows, And shake the white rime from the shuddering Rose; Whilst Amaryllis turns with graceful ease Her blushing beauties, and eludes the breeze.SYLPHS! if at noon the Fritillary droops, With drops nectareous hang her nodding cups; Thin clouds of Gossamer in air display, And hide the vale's chaste Lily from the ray; Whilst Erythrina o'er her tender flower Bends all her leaves, and braves the sultry hour;Shield, when cold Hesper sheds his dewy light, Mimosa's soft sensations from the night; Fold her thin foilage, close her timid flowers, And with ambrosial slumbers guard her bowers; O'er each warm wall while Cerea flings her arms, And wastes on night's dull eye a blaze of charms. 2. Round her tall Elm with dewy fingers twine The gadding tendrils of the adventurous Vine; From arm to arm in gay festoons suspend 23 Her fragrant flowers, her graceful foliage bend; Swell with sweet juice her vermil orbs, and feed Shrined in transparent pulp her pearly seed; Hang round the Orange all her silver bells, And guard her fragrance with Hesperian spells; Bud after bud her polish'd leaves unfold, And load her branches with successive gold. So the learn'd Alchemist exulting sees Rise in his bright matrass DIANA'S trees; Drop after drop, with just delay he pours The red-fumed acid on Potosi's ores; With sudden flash the fierce bullitions rise, And wide in air the gas phlogistic flies; Slow shoot, at length, in many a brilliant mass Metallic roots across the netted glass; Branch after branch extend their silver stems, Bud into gold, and blossoms into gems. So sits enthron'd in vegetable pride Imperial KEW by Thames's glittering side; Obedient sails from realms unfurrow'd bring For her the unnam'd progeny of spring; Attendant Nymphs her dulcet mandates hear, And nurse in fostering arms the tender year, Plant the young bulb, inhume the living seed, Prop the weak stem, the erring tendril lead; Or fan in glass-built fanes the stranger flowers With milder gales, and steep with warmer showers. Delighted Thames through tropic umbrage glides, And flowers antarctic, bending o'er his tides; Drinks the new tints, the sweets unknown inhales, And calls the sons of science to his vales. In one bright point admiring Nature eyes The fruits and foliage of discordant skies, Twines the gay floret with the fragrant bough, And bends the wreath round GEORGE'S royal brow. -Sometimes retiring, from the public weal One tranquil hour the ROYAL PARTNERS steal; Through glades exotic pass with step sublime, Or mark the growths of Britain's happier clime; With beauty blossom'd, and with virtue blaz'd, Mark the fair Scions, that themselves have rais'd; Sweet blooms the Rose, the towering Oak expands, 24 The Grace and Guard of Britain's golden lands. XV. SYLPHS! who, round earth on purple pinions borne, Attend the radiant chariot of the morn; Lead the gay hours along the ethereal hight, And on each dun meridian shower the light; SYLPHS! who from realms of equatorial day To climes, that shudder in the polar ray, From zone to zone pursue on shifting wing, The bright perennial journey of the spring; Bring my rich Balms from Mecca's hallow'd glades, Sweet flowers, that glitter in Arabia's shades; Fruits, whose fair forms in bright succession glow Gilding the Banks of Arno, or of Po; Each leaf, whose fragrant steam with ruby lip Gay China's nymphs from pictur'd vases sip; Each spicy rind, which sultry India boasts, Scenting the night-air round her breezy coasts; Roots whose bold stems in bleak Siberia blow, And gem with many a tint the eternal snow; Barks, whose broad umbrage high in ether waves O'er Ande's steeps, and hides his golden caves; -And, where yon oak extends his dusky shoots Wide o'er the rill, that bubbles from his roots; Beneath whose arms, protected from the storm A turf-built altar rears it's rustic form; SYLPHS! with religious hands fresh garlands twine, And deck with lavish pomp HYGEIA'S shrine. 'Call with loud voice the Sisterhood, that dwell On floating cloud, wide wave, or bubbling well; Stamp with charm'd foot, convoke the alarmed Gnomes From golden beds, and adamantine domes; Each from her sphere with beckoning arm invite, Curl'd with red flame, the Vestal Forms of light. Close all your spotted wings, in lucid ranks Press with your bending knees the crowded banks, Cross your meek arms, incline your wreathed brows, And win the Goddess with unwearied vows. 'Oh, wave, HYGEIA! o'er BRITANNIA'S throne Thy serpent-wand, and mark it for thy own; Lead round her breezy coasts thy guardian trains, Her nodding forests, and her waving plains; 25 Shed o'er her peopled realms thy beamy smile, And with thy airy temple crown her isle!' The GODDESS ceased,-and calling from afar The wandering Zephyrs, joins them to her car; Mounts with light bound, and graceful, as she bends, Whirls the long lash, the flexile rein extends; On whispering wheels the silver axle slides, Climbs into air, and cleaves the crystal tides; Burst from its pearly chains, her amber hair Streams o'er her ivory shoulders, buoy'd in air; Swells her white veil, with ruby clasp confined Round her fair brow, and undulates behind; The lessening coursers rise in spiral rings, Pierce the slow-sailing clouds, and stretch their shadowy wings. ~ Erasmus Darwin,

876:Gotham - Book Iii Can the fond mother from herself depart? Can she forget the darling of her heart, The little darling whom she bore and bred, Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed; To whom she seem'd her every thought to give, And in whose life alone she seem'd to live? Yes, from herself the mother may depart, She may forget the darling of her heart, The little darling whom she bore and bred, Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed, To whom she seem'd her every thought to give, And in whose life alone she seem'd to live; But I cannot forget, whilst life remains, And pours her current through these swelling veins, Whilst Memory offers up at Reason's shrine; But I cannot forget that Gotham's mine. Can the stern mother, than the brutes more wild, From her disnatured breast tear her young child, Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone, And dash the smiling babe against a stone? Yes, the stern mother, than the brutes more wild, From her disnatured breast may tear her child, Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone, And dash the smiling babe against a stone; But I, (forbid it, Heaven!) but I can ne'er The love of Gotham from this bosom tear; Can ne'er so far true royalty pervert From its fair course, to do my people hurt. With how much ease, with how much confidence-As if, superior to each grosser sense, Reason had only, in full power array'd, To manifest her will, and be obey'd-Men make resolves, and pass into decrees The motions of the mind! with how much ease, In such resolves, doth passion make a flaw, And bring to nothing what was raised to law! In empire young, scarce warm on Gotham's throne, The dangers and the sweets of power unknown, Pleased, though I scarce know why, like some young child, 55 Whose little senses each new toy turns wild, How do I hold sweet dalliance with my crown, And wanton with dominion, how lay down, Without the sanction of a precedent, Rules of most large and absolute extent; Rules, which from sense of public virtue spring, And all at once commence a Patriot King! But, for the day of trial is at hand, And the whole fortunes of a mighty land Are staked on me, and all their weal or woe Must from my good or evil conduct flow, Will I, or can I, on a fair review, As I assume that name, deserve it too? Have I well weigh'd the great, the noble part I'm now to play? have I explored my heart, That labyrinth of fraud, that deep dark cell, Where, unsuspected e'en by me, may dwell Ten thousand follies? have I found out there What I am fit to do, and what to bear? Have I traced every passion to its rise, Nor spared one lurking seed of treacherous vice? Have I familiar with my nature grown? And am I fairly to myself made known? A Patriot King!--why, 'tis a name which bears The more immediate stamp of Heaven; which wears The nearest, best resemblance we can show Of God above, through all his works below. To still the voice of Discord in the land; To make weak Faction's discontented band, Detected, weak, and crumbling to decay, With hunger pinch'd, on their own vitals prey; Like brethren, in the self-same interests warm'd, Like different bodies, with one soul inform'd; To make a nation, nobly raised above All meaner thought, grow up in common love; To give the laws due vigour, and to hold That secret balance, temperate, yet bold, With such an equal hand, that those who fear May yet approve, and own my justice clear; To be a common father, to secure The weak from violence, from pride the poor; Vice and her sons to banish in disgrace, 56 To make Corruption dread to show her face; To bid afflicted Virtue take new state, And be at last acquainted with the great; Of all religions to elect the best, Nor let her priests be made a standing jest; Rewards for worth with liberal hand to carve, To love the arts, nor let the artists starve; To make fair Plenty through the realm increase, Give fame in war, and happiness in peace; To see my people virtuous, great, and free, And know that all those blessings flow from me; Oh! 'tis a joy too exquisite, a thought Which flatters Nature more than flattery ought; 'Tis a great, glorious task, for man too hard; But no less great, less glorious the reward, The best reward which here to man is given, 'Tis more than earth, and little short of heaven; A task (if such comparison may be) The same in Nature, differing in degree, Like that which God, on whom for aid I call, Performs with ease, and yet performs to all. How much do they mistake, how little know Of kings, of kingdoms, and the pains which flow From royalty, who fancy that a crown, Because it glistens, must be lined with down! With outside show, and vain appearance caught, They look no further, and, by Folly taught, Prize high the toys of thrones, but never find One of the many cares which lurk behind. The gem they worship which a crown adorns, Nor once suspect that crown is lined with thorns. Oh, might Reflection Folly's place supply, Would we one moment use her piercing eye, Then should we find what woe from grandeur springs, And learn to pity, not to envy kings! The villager, born humbly and bred hard, Content his wealth, and Poverty his guard, In action simply just, in conscience clear, By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear, His means but scanty, and his wants but few, Labour his business, and his pleasure too, Enjoys more comforts in a single hour 57 Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to power. Call'd up by health, he rises with the day, And goes to work, as if he went to play, Whistling off toils, one half of which might make The stoutest Atlas of a palace quake; 'Gainst heat and cold, which make us cowards faint, Harden'd by constant use, without complaint He bears what we should think it death to bear; Short are his meals, and homely is his fare; His thirst he slakes at some pure neighbouring brook, Nor asks for sauce where appetite stands cook. When the dews fall, and when the sun retires Behind the mountains, when the village fires, Which, waken'd all at once, speak supper nigh, At distance catch, and fix his longing eye, Homeward he hies, and with his manly brood Of raw-boned cubs enjoys that clean, coarse food, Which, season'd with good-humour, his fond bride 'Gainst his return is happy to provide; Then, free from care, and free from thought, he creeps Into his straw, and till the morning sleeps. Not so the king--with anxious cares oppress'd His bosom labours, and admits not rest: A glorious wretch, he sweats beneath the weight Of majesty, and gives up ease for state. E'en when his smiles, which, by the fools of pride, Are treasured and preserved from side to side, Fly round the court, e'en when, compell'd by form, He seems most calm, his soul is in a storm. Care, like a spectre, seen by him alone, With all her nest of vipers, round his throne By day crawls full in view; when Night bids sleep, Sweet nurse of Nature! o'er the senses creep; When Misery herself no more complains, And slaves, if possible, forget their chains; Though his sense weakens, though his eyes grow dim, That rest which comes to all, comes not to him. E'en at that hour, Care, tyrant Care, forbids The dew of sleep to fall upon his lids; From night to night she watches at his bed; Now, as one moped, sits brooding o'er his head; Anon she starts, and, borne on raven's wings, 58 Croaks forth aloud--'Sleep was not made for kings!' Thrice hath the moon, who governs this vast ball, Who rules most absolute o'er me and all; To whom, by full conviction taught to bow, At new, at full, I pay the duteous vow; Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, Since, (bless'd be that season, for before I was a mere, mere mortal, and no more, One of the herd, a lump of common clay, Inform'd with life, to die and pass away) Since I became a king, and Gotham's throne, With full and ample power, became my own; Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, Since sleep, kind sleep! who like a friend supplies New vigour for new toil, hath closed these eyes. Nor, if my toils are answer'd with success, And I am made an instrument to bless The people whom I love, shall I repine; Theirs be the benefit, the labour mine. Mindful of that high rank in which I stand, Of millions lord, sole ruler in the land, Let me,--and Reason shall her aid afford,-Rule my own spirit, of myself be lord. With an ill grace that monarch wears his crown, Who, stern and hard of nature, wears a frown 'Gainst faults in other men, yet all the while Meets his own vices with a partial smile. How can a king (yet on record we find Such kings have been, such curses of mankind) Enforce that law 'gainst some poor subject elf Which conscience tells him he hath broke himself? Can he some petty rogue to justice call For robbing one, when he himself robs all? Must not, unless extinguish'd, Conscience fly Into his cheek, and blast his fading eye, To scourge the oppressor, when the State, distress'd And sunk to ruin, is by him oppress'd? Against himself doth he not sentence give; If one must die, t' other's not fit to live. Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, 59 Which takes not solid virtue for its ground. All envy power in others, and complain Of that which they would perish to obtain. Nor can those spirits, turbulent and bold, Not to be awed by threats, nor bought with gold, Be hush'd to peace, but when fair legal sway Makes it their real interest to obey; When kings, and none but fools can then rebel, Not less in virtue, than in power, excel. Be that my object, that my constant care, And may my soul's best wishes centre there; Be it my task to seek, nor seek in vain, Not only how to live, but how to reign; And to those virtues which from Reason spring, And grace the man, join those which grace the king. First, (for strict duty bids my care extend And reach to all who on that care depend, Bids me with servants keep a steady hand, And watch o'er all my proxies in the land) First, (and that method Reason shall support) Before I look into, and purge my court, Before I cleanse the stable of the State, Let me fix things which to myself relate. That done, and all accounts well settled here, In resolution firm, in honour clear, Tremble, ye slaves! who dare abuse your trust, Who dare be villains, when your king is just. Are there, amongst those officers of state, To whom our sacred power we delegate, Who hold our place and office in the realm, Who, in our name commission'd, guide the helm; Are there, who, trusting to our love of ease, Oppress our subjects, wrest our just decrees, And make the laws, warp'd from their fair intent, To speak a language which they never meant; Are there such men, and can the fools depend On holding out in safety to their end? Can they so much, from thoughts of danger free, Deceive themselves, so much misdeem of me, To think that I will prove a statesman's tool, And live a stranger where I ought to rule? What! to myself and to my state unjust, 60 Shall I from ministers take things on trust, And, sinking low the credit of my throne, Depend upon dependants of my own? Shall I,--most certain source of future cares,-Not use my judgment, but depend on theirs? Shall I, true puppet-like, be mock'd with state, Have nothing but the name of being great; Attend at councils which I must not weigh; Do what they bid, and what they dictate, say; Enrobed, and hoisted up into my chair, Only to be a royal cipher there? Perish the thought--'tis treason to my throne-And who but thinks it, could his thoughts be known Insults me more than he, who, leagued with Hell, Shall rise in arms, and 'gainst my crown rebel. The wicked statesman, whose false heart pursues A train of guilt; who acts with double views, And wears a double face; whose base designs Strike at his monarch's throne; who undermines E'en whilst he seems his wishes to support; Who seizes all departments; packs a court; Maintains an agent on the judgment-seat, To screen his crimes, and make his frauds complete; New-models armies, and around the throne Will suffer none but creatures of his own, Conscious of such his baseness, well may try, Against the light to shut his master's eye, To keep him coop'd, and far removed from those Who, brave and honest, dare his crimes disclose, Nor ever let him in one place appear, Where truth, unwelcome truth, may wound his ear. Attempts like these, well weigh'd, themselves proclaim, And, whilst they publish, balk their author's aim. Kings must be blind into such snares to run, Or, worse, with open eyes must be undone. The minister of honesty and worth Demands the day to bring his actions forth; Calls on the sun to shine with fiercer rays, And braves that trial which must end in praise. None fly the day, and seek the shades of night, But those whose actions cannot bear the light; None wish their king in ignorance to hold 61 But those who feel that knowledge must unfold Their hidden guilt; and, that dark mist dispell'd By which their places and their lives are held, Confusion wait them, and, by Justice led, In vengeance fall on every traitor's head. Aware of this, and caution'd 'gainst the pit Where kings have oft been lost, shall I submit, And rust in chains like these? shall I give way, And whilst my helpless subjects fall a prey To power abused, in ignorance sit down, Nor dare assert the honour of my crown? When stern Rebellion, (if that odious name Justly belongs to those whose only aim, Is to preserve their country; who oppose, In honour leagued, none but their country's foes; Who only seek their own, and found their cause In due regard for violated laws) When stern Rebellion, who no longer feels Nor fears rebuke, a nation at her heels, A nation up in arms, though strong not proud, Knocks at the palace gate, and, calling loud For due redress, presents, from Truth's fair pen, A list of wrongs, not to be borne by men: How must that king be humbled, how disgrace All that is royal in his name and place, Who, thus call'd forth to answer, can advance No other plea but that of ignorance! A vile defence, which, was his all at stake, The meanest subject well might blush to make; A filthy source, from whence shame ever springs; A stain to all, but most a stain to kings. The soul with great and manly feelings warm'd, Panting for knowledge, rests not till inform'd; And shall not I, fired with the glorious zeal, Feel those brave passions which my subjects feel? Or can a just excuse from ignorance flow To me, whose first great duty is--to know? Hence, Ignorance!--thy settled, dull, blank eye Would hurt me, though I knew no reason why. Hence, Ignorance!--thy slavish shackles bind The free-born soul, and lethargise the mind. Of thee, begot by Pride, who look'd with scorn 62 On every meaner match, of thee was born That grave inflexibility of soul, Which Reason can't convince, nor Fear control; Which neither arguments nor prayers can reach, And nothing less than utter ruin teach. Hence, Ignorance!--hence to that depth of night Where thou wast born, where not one gleam of light May wound thine eye--hence to some dreary cell Where monks with superstition love to dwell; Or in some college soothe thy lazy pride, And with the heads of colleges reside; Fit mate for Royalty thou canst not be, And if no mate for kings, no mate for me. Come, Study! like a torrent swell'd with rains, Which, rushing down the mountains, o'er the plains Spreads horror wide, and yet, in horror kind, Leaves seeds of future fruitfulness behind; Come, Study!--painful though thy course, and slow, Thy real worth by thy effects we know-Parent of Knowledge, come!--Not thee I call, Who, grave and dull, in college or in hall Dost sit, all solemn sad, and moping weigh Things which, when found, thy labours can't repay-Nor, in one hand, fit emblem of thy trade, A rod; in t' other, gaudily array'd, A hornbook gilt and letter'd, call I thee, Who dost in form preside o'er A, B, C: Nor (siren though thou art, and thy strange charms, As 'twere by magic, lure men to thine arms) Do I call thee, who, through a winding maze, A labyrinth of puzzling, pleasing ways, Dost lead us at the last to those rich plains, Where, in full glory, real Science reigns; Fair though thou art, and lovely to mine eye, Though full rewards in thy possession lie To crown man's wish, and do thy favourites grace; Though (was I station'd in an humbler place) I could be ever happy in thy sight, Toil with thee all the day, and through the night, Toil on from watch to watch, bidding my eye, Fast rivetted on Science, sleep defy; Yet (such the hardships which from empire flow) 63 Must I thy sweet society forego, And to some happy rival's arms resign Those charms which can, alas! no more be mine! No more from hour to hour, from day to day, Shall I pursue thy steps, and urge my way Where eager love of science calls; no more Attempt those paths which man ne'er trod before; No more, the mountain scaled, the desert cross'd, Losing myself, nor knowing I was lost, Travel through woods, through wilds, from morn to night, From night to morn, yet travel with delight, And having found thee, lay me down content, Own all my toil well paid, my time well spent. Farewell, ye Muses too!--for such mean things Must not presume to dwell with mighty kings-Farewell, ye Muses! though it cuts my heart E'en to the quick, we must for ever part. When the fresh morn bade lusty Nature wake; When the birds, sweetly twittering through the brake, Tune their soft pipes; when, from the neighbouring bloom Sipping the dew, each zephyr stole perfume; When all things with new vigour were inspired, And seem'd to say they never could be tired; How often have we stray'd, whilst sportive rhyme Deceived the way and clipp'd the wings of Time, O'er hill, o'er dale; how often laugh'd to see, Yourselves made visible to none but me, The clown, his works suspended, gape and stare, And seem to think that I conversed with air! When the sun, beating on the parched soil, Seem'd to proclaim an interval of toil; When a faint langour crept through every breast, And things most used to labour wish'd for rest, How often, underneath a reverend oak, Where safe, and fearless of the impious stroke, Some sacred Dryad lived; or in some grove, Where, with capricious fingers, Fancy wove Her fairy bower, whilst Nature all the while Look'd on, and view'd her mockeries with a smile, Have we held converse sweet! How often laid, Fast by the Thames, in Ham's inspiring shade, Amongst those poets which make up your train, 64 And, after death, pour forth the sacred strain, Have I, at your command, in verse grown gray, But not impair'd, heard Dryden tune that lay Which might have drawn an angel from his sphere, And kept him from his office listening here! When dreary Night, with Morpheus in her train, Led on by Silence to resume her reign, With darkness covering, as with a robe, The scene of levity, blank'd half the globe; How oft, enchanted with your heavenly strains, Which stole me from myself; which in soft chains Of music bound my soul; how oft have I, Sounds more than human floating through the sky, Attentive sat, whilst Night, against her will, Transported with the harmony, stood still! How oft in raptures, which man scarce could bear, Have I, when gone, still thought the Muses there; Still heard their music, and, as mute as death, Sat all attention, drew in every breath, Lest, breathing all too rudely, I should wound, And mar that magic excellence of sound; Then, Sense returning with return of day, Have chid the Night, which fled so fast away! Such my pursuits, and such my joys of yore, Such were my mates, but now my mates no more. Placed out of Envy's walk, (for Envy, sure, Would never haunt the cottage of the poor, Would never stoop to wound my homespun lays) With some few friends, and some small share of praise, Beneath oppression, undisturb'd by strife, In peace I trod the humble vale of life. Farewell, these scenes of ease, this tranquil state; Welcome the troubles which on empire wait! Light toys from this day forth I disavow; They pleased me once, but cannot suit me now: To common men all common things are free, What honours them, might fix disgrace on me. Call'd to a throne, and o'er a mighty land Ordain'd to rule, my head, my heart, my hand, Are all engross'd; each private view withstood, And task'd to labour for the public good: Be this my study; to this one great end 65 May every thought, may every action tend! Let me the page of History turn o'er, The instructive page, and needfully explore What faithful pens of former times have wrote Of former kings; what they did worthy note, What worthy blame; and from the sacred tomb Where righteous monarchs sleep, where laurels bloom, Unhurt by Time, let me a garland twine, Which, robbing not their fame, may add to mine. Nor let me with a vain and idle eye Glance o'er those scenes, and in a hurry fly, Quick as the post, which travels day and night; Nor let me dwell there, lured by false delight; And, into barren theory betray'd, Forget that monarchs are for action made. When amorous Spring, repairing all his charms, Calls Nature forth from hoary Winter's arms, Where, like a virgin to some lecher sold, Three wretched months she lay benumb'd, and cold; When the weak flower, which, shrinking from the breath Of the rude North, and timorous of death, To its kind mother earth for shelter fled, And on her bosom hid its tender head, Peeps forth afresh, and, cheer'd by milder sties, Bids in full splendour all her beauties rise; The hive is up in arms--expert to teach, Nor, proudly, to be taught unwilling, each Seems from her fellow a new zeal to catch; Strength in her limbs, and on her wings dispatch, The bee goes forth; from herb to herb she flies, From flower to flower, and loads her labouring thighs With treasured sweets, robbing those flowers, which, left, Find not themselves made poorer by the theft, Their scents as lively, and their looks as fair, As if the pillager had not been there. Ne'er doth she flit on Pleasure's silken wing; Ne'er doth she, loitering, let the bloom of Spring Unrifled pass, and on the downy breast Of some fair flower indulge untimely rest; Ne'er doth she, drinking deep of those rich dews Which chemist Night prepared, that faith abuse Due to the hive, and, selfish in her toils, 66 To her own private use convert the spoils. Love of the stock first call'd her forth to roam, And to the stock she brings her booty home. Be this my pattern--as becomes a king, Let me fly all abroad on Reason's wing; Let mine eye, like the lightning, through the earth Run to and fro, nor let one deed of worth, In any place and time, nor let one man, Whose actions may enrich dominion's plan, Escape my note; be all, from the first day Of Nature to this hour, be all my prey. From those whom Time, at the desire of Fame, Hath spared, let Virtue catch an equal flame; From those who, not in mercy, but in rage, Time hath reprieved, to damn from age to age, Let me take warning, lesson'd to distil, And, imitating Heaven, draw good from ill. Nor let these great researches, in my breast A monument of useless labour rest; No--let them spread--the effects let Gotham share, And reap the harvest of their monarch's care: Be other times, and other countries known, Only to give fresh blessings to my own. Let me, (and may that God to whom I fly, On whom for needful succour I rely In this great hour, that glorious God of truth, Through whom I reign, in mercy to my youth, Assist my weakness, and direct me right; From every speck which hangs upon the sight Purge my mind's eye, nor let one cloud remain To spread the shades of Error o'er my brain!) Let me, impartial, with unwearied thought, Try men and things; let me, as monarchs ought, Examine well on what my power depends; What are the general principles and ends Of government; how empire first began; And wherefore man was raised to reign o'er man. Let me consider, as from one great source We see a thousand rivers take their course, Dispersed, and into different channels led, Yet by their parent still supplied and fed, That Government, (though branch'd out far and wide, 67 In various modes to various lands applied) Howe'er it differs in its outward frame, In the main groundwork's every where the same; The same her view, though different her plan, Her grand and general view--the good of man. Let me find out, by Reason's sacred beams, What system in itself most perfect seems, Most worthy man, most likely to conduce To all the purposes of general use; Let me find, too, where, by fair Reason tried, It fails, when to particulars applied; Why in that mode all nations do not join, And, chiefly, why it cannot suit with mine. Let me the gradual rise of empires trace, Till they seem founded on Perfection's base; Then (for when human things have made their way To excellence, they hasten to decay) Let me, whilst Observation lends her clue Step after step to their decline pursue, Enabled by a chain of facts to tell Not only how they rose, but why they fell. Let me not only the distempers know Which in all states from common causes grow, But likewise those, which, by the will of Fate, On each peculiar mode of empire wait; Which in its very constitution lurk, Too sure at last to do its destined work: Let me, forewarn'd, each sign, each symptom learn, That I my people's danger may discern, Ere 'tis too late wish'd health to reassure, And, if it can be found, find out a cure. Let me, (though great, grave brethren of the gown Preach all Faith up, and preach all Reason down, Making those jar whom Reason meant to join, And vesting in themselves a right divine), Let me, through Reason's glass, with searching eye, Into the depth of that religion pry Which law hath sanction'd; let me find out there What's form, what's essence; what, like vagrant air, We well may change; and what, without a crime, Cannot be changed to the last hour of time. Nor let me suffer that outrageous zeal 68 Which, without knowledge, furious bigots feel, Fair in pretence, though at the heart unsound, These separate points at random to confound. The times have been when priests have dared to tread, Proud and insulting, on their monarch's head; When, whilst they made religion a pretence, Out of the world they banish'd common-sense; When some soft king, too open to deceit, Easy and unsuspecting join'd the cheat, Duped by mock piety, and gave his name To serve the vilest purposes of shame. Pear not, my people! where no cause of fear Can justly rise--your king secures you here; Your king, who scorns the haughty prelate's nod, Nor deems the voice of priests the voice of God. Let me, (though lawyers may perhaps forbid Their monarch to behold what they wish hid, And for the purposes of knavish gain, Would have their trade a mystery remain) Let me, disdaining all such slavish awe, Dive to the very bottom of the law; Let me (the weak, dead letter left behind) Search out the principles, the spirit find, Till, from the parts, made master of the whole, I see the Constitution's very soul. Let me, (though statesmen will no doubt resist, And to my eyes present a fearful list Of men, whose wills are opposite to mine, Of men, great men, determined to resign) Let me, (with firmness, which becomes a king. Conscious from what a source my actions spring, Determined not by worlds to be withstood, When my grand object is my country's good) Unravel all low ministerial scenes, Destroy their jobs, lay bare their ways and means, And track them step by step; let me well know How places, pensions, and preferments go; Why Guilt's provided for when Worth is not, And why one man of merit is forgot; Let me in peace, in war, supreme preside, And dare to know my way without a guide. Let me, (though Dignity, by nature proud, 69 Retires from view, and swells behind a cloud,-As if the sun shone with less powerful ray, Less grace, less glory, shining every day,-Though when she comes forth into public sight, Unbending as a ghost, she stalks upright, With such an air as we have often seen, And often laugh'd at, in a tragic queen, Nor, at her presence, though base myriads crook The supple knee, vouchsafes a single look) Let me, (all vain parade, all empty pride, All terrors of dominion laid aside, All ornament, and needless helps of art, All those big looks, which speak a little heart) Know (which few kings, alas! have ever known) How Affability becomes a throne, Destroys all fear, bids Love with Reverence live, And gives those graces Pride can never give. Let the stern tyrant keep a distant state, And, hating all men, fear return of hate, Conscious of guilt, retreat behind his throne, Secure from all upbraidings but his own: Let all my subjects have access to me, Be my ears open, as my heart is free; In full fair tide let information flow; That evil is half cured, whose cause we know. And thou, where'er thou art, thou wretched thing, Who art afraid to look up to a king, Lay by thy fears; make but thy grievance plain, And, if I not redress thee, may my reign Close up that very moment. To prevent The course of Justice from her vain intent, In vain my nearest, dearest friend shall plead, In vain my mother kneel; my soul may bleed, But must not change. When Justice draws the dart, Though it is doom'd to pierce a favourite's heart, 'Tis mine to give it force, to give it aim-I know it duty, and I feel it fame. ~ Charles Churchill,

877:Beachy Head ON thy stupendous summit, rock sublime ! That o'er the channel rear'd, half way at sea The mariner at early morning hails, I would recline; while Fancy should go forth, And represent the strange and awful hour Of vast concussion; when the Omnipotent Stretch'd forth his arm, and rent the solid hills, Bidding the impetuous main flood rush between The rifted shores, and from the continent Eternally divided this green isle. Imperial lord of the high southern coast ! From thy projecting head-land I would mark Far in the east the shades of night disperse, Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue wave Emerging, brilliant rays of arrowy light Dart from the horizon; when the glorious sun Just lifts above it his resplendent orb. Advances now, with feathery silver touched, The rippling tide of flood; glisten the sands, While, inmates of the chalky clefts that scar Thy sides precipitous, with shrill harsh cry, Their white wings glancing in the level beam, The terns, and gulls, and tarrocks, seek their food, And thy rough hollows echo to the voice Of the gray choughs, and ever restless daws, With clamour, not unlike the chiding hounds, While the lone shepherd, and his baying dog, Drive to thy turfy crest his bleating flock. The high meridian of the day is past, And Ocean now, reflecting the calm Heaven, Is of cerulean hue; and murmurs low The tide of ebb, upon the level sands. The sloop, her angular canvas shifting still, Catches the light and variable airs That but a little crisp the summer sea. Dimpling its tranquil surface. Afar off, 17 And just emerging from the arch immense Where seem to part the elements, a fleet Of fishing vessels stretch their lesser sails; While more remote, and like a dubious spot Just hanging in the horizon, laden deep, The ship of commerce richly freighted, makes Her slower progress, on her distant voyage, Bound to the orient climates, where the sun Matures the spice within its odorous shell, And, rivalling the gray worm's filmy toil, Bursts from its pod the vegetable down; Which in long turban'd wreaths, from torrid heat Defends the brows of Asia's countless casts. There the Earth hides within her glowing breast The beamy adamant, and the round pearl Enchased in rugged covering; which the slave, With perilous and breathless toil, tears off From the rough sea-rock, deep beneath the waves. These are the toys of Nature; and her sport Of little estimate in Reason's eye: And they who reason, with abhorrence see Man, for such gaudes and baubles, violate The sacred freedom of his fellow man­ Erroneous estimate ! As Heaven's pure air, Fresh as it blows on this aërial height, Or sound of seas upon the stony strand, Or inland, the gay harmony of birds, And winds that wander in the leafy woods; Are to the unadulterate taste more worth Than the elaborate harmony, brought out From fretted stop, or modulated airs Of vocal science.­So the brightest gems, Glancing resplendent on the regal crown, Or trembling in the high born beauty's ear, Are poor and paltry, to the lovely light Of the fair star, that as the day declines, Attendant on her queen, the crescent moon, Bathes her bright tresses in the eastern wave. For now the sun is verging to the sea, 18 And as he westward sinks, the floating clouds Suspended, move upon the evening gale, And gathering round his orb, as if to shade The insufferable brightness, they resign Their gauzy whiteness; and more warm'd, assume All hues of purple. There, transparent gold Mingles with ruby tints, and sapphire gleams, And colours, such as Nature through her works Shews only in the ethereal canopy. Thither aspiring Fancy fondly soars, Wandering sublime thro' visionary vales, Where bright pavilions rise, and trophies, fann'd By airs celestial; and adorn'd with wreaths Of flowers that bloom amid elysian bowers. Now bright, and brighter still the colours glow, Till half the lustrous orb within the flood Seems to retire: the flood reflecting still Its splendor, and in mimic glory drest; Till the last ray shot upward, fires the clouds With blazing crimson; then in paler light, Long lines of tenderer radiance, lingering yield To partial darkness; and on the opposing side The early moon distinctly rising, throws Her pearly brilliance on the trembling tide. The fishermen, who at set seasons pass Many a league off at sea their toiling night, Now hail their comrades, from their daily task Returning; and make ready for their own, With the night tide commencing:­The night tide Bears a dark vessel on, whose hull and sails Mark her a coaster from the north. Her keel Now ploughs the sand; and sidelong now she leans, While with loud clamours her athletic crew Unload her; and resounds the busy hum Along the wave-worn rocks. Yet more remote, Where the rough cliff hangs beetling o'er its base, All breathes repose; the water's rippling sound Scarce heard; but now and then the sea-snipe's cry Just tells that something living is abroad; And sometimes crossing on the moonbright line, 19 Glimmers the skiff, faintly discern'd awhile, Then lost in shadow. Contemplation here, High on her throne of rock, aloof may sit, And bid recording Memory unfold Her scroll voluminous­bid her retrace The period, when from Neustria's hostile shore The Norman launch'd his galleys, and the bay O'er which that mass of ruin frowns even now In vain and sullen menace, then received The new invaders; a proud martial race, Of Scandinavia the undaunted sons, Whom Dogon, Fier-a-bras, and Humfroi led To conquest: while Trinacria to their power Yielded her wheaten garland; and when thou, Parthenope ! within thy fertile bay Receiv'd the victors­ In the mailed ranks Of Normans landing on the British coast Rode Taillefer; and with astounding voice Thunder'd the war song daring Roland sang First in the fierce contention: vainly brave, One not inglorious struggle England made­ But failing, saw the Saxon heptarchy Finish for ever.­Then the holy pile, Yet seen upon the field of conquest, rose, Where to appease heaven's wrath for so much blood, The conqueror bade unceasing prayers ascend, And requiems for the slayers and the slain. But let not modern Gallia form from hence Presumptuous hopes, that ever thou again, Queen of the isles ! shalt crouch to foreign arms. The enervate sons of Italy may yield; And the Iberian, all his trophies torn And wrapp'd in Superstition's monkish weed, May shelter his abasement, and put on Degrading fetters. Never, never thou ! Imperial mistress of the obedient sea; But thou, in thy integrity secure, 20 Shalt now undaunted meet a world in arms. England ! 'twas where this promontory rears Its rugged brow above the channel wave, Parting the hostile nations, that thy fame, Thy naval fame was tarnish'd, at what time Thou, leagued with the Batavian, gavest to France One day of triumph­triumph the more loud, Because even then so rare. Oh ! well redeem'd, Since, by a series of illustrious men, Such as no other country ever rear'd, To vindicate her cause. It is a list Which, as Fame echoes it, blanches the cheek Of bold Ambition; while the despot feels The extorted sceptre tremble in his grasp. From even the proudest roll by glory fill'd, How gladly the reflecting mind returns To simple scenes of peace and industry, Where, bosom'd in some valley of the hills Stands the lone farm; its gate with tawny ricks Surrounded, and with granaries and sheds, Roof'd with green mosses, and by elms and ash Partially shaded; and not far remov'd The hut of sea-flints built; the humble home Of one, who sometimes watches on the heights, When hid in the cold mist of passing clouds, The flock, with dripping fleeces, are dispers'd O'er the wide down; then from some ridged point That overlooks the sea, his eager eye Watches the bark that for his signal waits To land its merchandize:­Quitting for this Clandestine traffic his more honest toil, The crook abandoning, he braves himself The heaviest snow-storm of December's night, When with conflicting winds the ocean raves, And on the tossing boat, unfearing mounts To meet the partners of the perilous trade, And share their hazard. Well it were for him, If no such commerce of destruction known, He were content with what the earth affords 21 To human labour; even where she seems Reluctant most. More happy is the hind, Who, with his own hands rears on some black moor, Or turbary, his independent hut Cover'd with heather, whence the slow white smoke Of smouldering peat arises­­A few sheep, His best possession, with his children share The rugged shed when wintry tempests blow; But, when with Spring's return the green blades rise Amid the russet heath, the household live Joint tenants of the waste throughout the day, And often, from her nest, among the swamps, Where the gemm'd sun-dew grows, or fring'd buck-bean, They scare the plover, that with plaintive cries Flutters, as sorely wounded, down the wind. Rude, and but just remov'd from savage life Is the rough dweller among scenes like these, (Scenes all unlike the poet's fabling dreams Describing Arcady)­But he is free; The dread that follows on illegal acts He never feels; and his industrious mate Shares in his labour. Where the brook is traced By crouding osiers, and the black coot hides Among the plashy reeds, her diving brood, The matron wades; gathering the long green rush That well prepar'd hereafter lends its light To her poor cottage, dark and cheerless else Thro' the drear hours of Winter. Otherwhile She leads her infant group where charlock grows 'Unprofitably gay,' or to the fields, Where congregate the linnet and the finch, That on the thistles, so profusely spread, Feast in the desert; the poor family Early resort, extirpating with care These, and the gaudier mischief of the ground; Then flames the high rais'd heap; seen afar off Like hostile war-fires flashing to the sky. Another task is theirs: On fields that shew As angry Heaven had rain'd sterility, Stony and cold, and hostile to the plough, 22 Where clamouring loud, the evening curlew runs And drops her spotted eggs among the flints; The mother and the children pile the stones In rugged pyramids;­and all this toil They patiently encounter; well content On their flock bed to slumber undisturb'd Beneath the smoky roof they call their own. Oh ! little knows the sturdy hind, who stands Gazing, with looks where envy and contempt Are often strangely mingled, on the car Where prosperous Fortune sits; what secret care Or sick satiety is often hid, Beneath the splendid outside: He knows not How frequently the child of Luxury Enjoying nothing, flies from place to place In chase of pleasure that eludes his grasp; And that content is e'en less found by him, Than by the labourer, whose pick-axe smooths The road before his chariot; and who doffs What was an hat; and as the train pass on, Thinks how one day's expenditure, like this, Would cheer him for long months, when to his toil The frozen earth closes her marble breast. Ah ! who is happy ? Happiness ! a word That like false fire, from marsh effluvia born, Misleads the wanderer, destin'd to contend In the world's wilderness, with want or woe­ Yet they are happy, who have never ask'd What good or evil means. The boy That on the river's margin gaily plays, Has heard that Death is there­He knows not Death, And therefore fears it not; and venturing in He gains a bullrush, or a minnow­then, At certain peril, for a worthless prize, A crow's, or raven's nest, he climbs the boll, Of some tall pine; and of his prowess proud, Is for a moment happy. Are your cares, Ye who despise him, never worse applied ? The village girl is happy, who sets forth 23 To distant fair, gay in her Sunday suit, With cherry colour'd knots, and flourish'd shawl, And bonnet newly purchas'd. So is he Her little brother, who his mimic drum Beats, till he drowns her rural lovers' oaths Of constant faith, and still increasing love; Ah ! yet a while, and half those oaths believ'd, Her happiness is vanish'd; and the boy While yet a stripling, finds the sound he lov'd Has led him on, till he has given up His freedom, and his happiness together. I once was happy, when while yet a child, I learn'd to love these upland solitudes, And, when elastic as the mountain air, To my light spirit, care was yet unknown And evil unforeseen:­Early it came, And childhood scarcely passed, I was condemned, A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, While Memory, with faithful pencil, drew The contrast; and regretting, I compar'd With the polluted smoky atmosphere And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills That to the setting Sun, their graceful heads Rearing, o'erlook the frith, where Vecta breaks With her white rocks, the strong impetuous tide, When western winds the vast Atlantic urge To thunder on the coast­Haunts of my youth ! Scenes of fond day dreams, I behold ye yet ! Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft By scatter'd thorns: whose spiny branches bore Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun; And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, To look beneath upon the hollow way While heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain, And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone The grating wheel. Advancing higher still 24 The prospect widens, and the village church But little, o'er the lowly roofs around Rears its gray belfry, and its simple vane; Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring, When on each bough, the rosy-tinctur'd bloom Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. For even those orchards round the Norman farms, Which, as their owners mark the promis'd fruit, Console them for the vineyards of the south, Surpass not these. Where woods of ash, and beech, And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot, The upland shepherd rears his modest home, There wanders by, a little nameless stream That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, But still refreshing in its shallow course, The cottage garden; most for use design'd, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement; yet the briar Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers; And pansies rayed, and freak'd and mottled pinks Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue: There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow Almost uncultured: Some with dark green leaves Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white; Others, like velvet robes of regal state Of richest crimson, while in thorny moss Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely, wear The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.­ With fond regret I recollect e'en now In Spring and Summer, what delight I felt Among these cottage gardens, and how much Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush By village housewife or her ruddy maid, Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleas'd. An early worshipper at Nature's shrine; I loved her rudest scenes­warrens, and heaths, 25 And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, And hedge rows, bordering unfrequented lanes Bowered with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine Where purple tassels of the tangling vetch With bittersweet, and bryony inweave, And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups­ I loved to trace the brooks whose humid banks Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil; And stroll among o'ershadowing woods of beech, Lending in Summer, from the heats of noon A whispering shade; while haply there reclines Some pensive lover of uncultur'd flowers, Who, from the tumps with bright green mosses clad, Plucks the wood sorrel, with its light thin leaves, Heart-shaped, and triply folded; and its root Creeping like beaded coral; or who there Gathers, the copse's pride, anémones, With rays like golden studs on ivory laid Most delicate: but touch'd with purple clouds, Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow. Ah ! hills so early loved ! in fancy still I breathe your pure keen air; and still behold Those widely spreading views, mocking alike The Poet and the Painter's utmost art. And still, observing objects more minute, Wondering remark the strange and foreign forms Of sea-shells; with the pale calcareous soil Mingled, and seeming of resembling substance. Tho' surely the blue Ocean (from the heights Where the downs westward trend, but dimly seen) Here never roll'd its surge. Does Nature then Mimic, in wanton mood, fantastic shapes Of bivalves, and inwreathed volutes, that cling To the dark sea-rock of the wat'ry world ? Or did this range of chalky mountains, once Form a vast bason, where the Ocean waves Swell'd fathomless ? What time these fossil shells, Buoy'd on their native element, were thrown Among the imbedding calx: when the huge hill Its giant bulk heaved, and in strange ferment 26 Grew up a guardian barrier, 'twixt the sea And the green level of the sylvan weald. Ah ! very vain is Science' proudest boast, And but a little light its flame yet lends To its most ardent votaries; since from whence These fossil forms are seen, is but conjecture, Food for vague theories, or vain dispute, While to his daily task the peasant goes, Unheeding such inquiry; with no care But that the kindly change of sun and shower, Fit for his toil the earth he cultivates. As little recks the herdsman of the hill, Who on some turfy knoll, idly reclined, Watches his wether flock; that deep beneath Rest the remains of men, of whom is left No traces in the records of mankind, Save what these half obliterated mounds And half fill'd trenches doubtfully impart To some lone antiquary; who on times remote, Since which two thousand years have roll'd away, Loves to contemplate. He perhaps may trace, Or fancy he can trace, the oblong square Where the mail'd legions, under Claudius, rear'd, The rampire, or excavated fossé delved; What time the huge unwieldy Elephant Auxiliary reluctant, hither led, From Afric's forest glooms and tawny sands, First felt the Northern blast, and his vast frame Sunk useless; whence in after ages found, The wondering hinds, on those enormous bones Gaz'd; and in giants dwelling on the hills Believed and marvell'd­ Hither, Ambition, come ! Come and behold the nothingness of all For which you carry thro' the oppressed Earth, War, and its train of horrors­see where tread The innumerous hoofs of flocks above the works By which the warrior sought to register His glory, and immortalize his name­ 27 The pirate Dane, who from his circular camp Bore in destructive robbery, fire and sword Down thro' the vale, sleeps unremember'd here; And here, beneath the green sward, rests alike The savage native, who his acorn meal Shar'd with the herds, that ranged the pathless woods; And the centurion, who on these wide hills Encamping, planted the Imperial Eagle. All, with the lapse of Time, have passed away, Even as the clouds, with dark and dragon shapes, Or like vast promontories crown'd with towers, Cast their broad shadows on the downs: then sail Far to the northward, and their transient gloom Is soon forgotten. But from thoughts like these, By human crimes suggested, let us turn To where a more attractive study courts The wanderer of the hills; while shepherd girls Will from among the fescue bring him flowers, Of wonderous mockery; some resembling bees In velvet vest, intent on their sweet toil, While others mimic flies, that lightly sport In the green shade, or float along the pool, But here seem perch'd upon the slender stalk, And gathering honey dew. While in the breeze That wafts the thistle's plumed seed along, Blue bells wave tremulous. The mountain thyme Purples the hassock of the heaving mole, And the short turf is gay with tormentil, And bird's foot trefoil, and the lesser tribes Of hawkweed; spangling it with fringed stars.­ Near where a richer tract of cultur'd land Slopes to the south; and burnished by the sun, Bend in the gale of August, floods of corn; The guardian of the flock, with watchful care, Repels by voice and dog the encroaching sheep­ While his boy visits every wired trap That scars the turf; and from the pit-falls takes The timid migrants, who from distant wilds, Warrens, and stone quarries, are destined thus 28 To lose their short existence. But unsought By Luxury yet, the Shepherd still protects The social bird, who from his native haunts Of willowy current, or the rushy pool, Follows the fleecy croud, and flirts and skims, In fellowship among them. Where the knoll More elevated takes the changeful winds, The windmill rears its vanes; and thitherward With his white load, the master travelling, Scares the rooks rising slow on whispering wings, While o'er his head, before the summer sun Lights up the blue expanse, heard more than seen, The lark sings matins; and above the clouds Floating, embathes his spotted breast in dew. Beneath the shadow of a gnarled thorn, Bent by the sea blast, from a seat of turf With fairy nosegays strewn, how wide the view ! Till in the distant north it melts away, And mingles indiscriminate with clouds: But if the eye could reach so far, the mart Of England's capital, its domes and spires Might be perceived­Yet hence the distant range Of Kentish hills, appear in purple haze; And nearer, undulate the wooded heights, And airy summits, that above the mole Rise in green beauty; and the beacon'd ridge Of Black-down shagg'd with heath, and swelling rude Like a dark island from the vale; its brow Catching the last rays of the evening sun That gleam between the nearer park's old oaks, Then lighten up the river, and make prominent The portal, and the ruin'd battlements Of that dismantled fortress; rais'd what time The Conqueror's successors fiercely fought, Tearing with civil feuds the desolate land. But now a tiller of the soil dwells there, And of the turret's loop'd and rafter'd halls Has made an humbler homestead­Where he sees, 29 Instead of armed foemen, herds that graze Along his yellow meadows; or his flocks At evening from the upland driv'n to fold­ In such a castellated mansion once A stranger chose his home; and where hard by In rude disorder fallen, and hid with brushwood Lay fragments gray of towers and buttresses, Among the ruins, often he would muse­ His rustic meal soon ended, he was wont To wander forth, listening the evening sounds Of rushing milldam, or the distant team, Or night-jar, chasing fern-flies: the tir'd hind Pass'd him at nightfall, wondering he should sit On the hill top so late: they from the coast Who sought bye paths with their clandestine load, Saw with suspicious doubt, the lonely man Cross on their way: but village maidens thought His senses injur'd; and with pity say That he, poor youth ! must have been cross'd in love­ For often, stretch'd upon the mountain turf With folded arms, and eyes intently fix'd Where ancient elms and firs obscured a grange, Some little space within the vale below, They heard him, as complaining of his fate, And to the murmuring wind, of cold neglect And baffled hope he told.­The peasant girls These plaintive sounds remember, and even now Among them may be heard the stranger's songs. Were I a Shepherd on the hill And ever as the mists withdrew Could see the willows of the rill Shading the footway to the mill Where once I walk'd with you­ And as away Night's shadows sail, And sounds of birds and brooks arise, Believe, that from the woody vale I hear your voice upon the gale In soothing melodies; And viewing from the Alpine height, 30 The prospect dress'd in hues of air, Could say, while transient colours bright Touch'd the fair scene with dewy light, 'Tis, that her eyes are there ! I think, I could endure my lot And linger on a few short years, And then, by all but you forgot, Sleep, where the turf that clothes the spot May claim some pitying tears. For 'tis not easy to forget One, who thro' life has lov'd you still, And you, however late, might yet With sighs to Memory giv'n, regret The Shepherd of the Hill. Yet otherwhile it seem'd as if young Hope Her flattering pencil gave to Fancy's hand, And in his wanderings, rear'd to sooth his soul Ideal bowers of pleasure­Then, of Solitude And of his hermit life, still more enamour'd, His home was in the forest; and wild fruits And bread sustain'd him. There in early spring The Barkmen found him, e'er the sun arose; There at their daily toil, the Wedgecutters Beheld him thro' the distant thicket move. The shaggy dog following the truffle hunter, Bark'd at the loiterer; and perchance at night Belated villagers from fair or wake, While the fresh night-wind let the moonbeams in Between the swaying boughs, just saw him pass, And then in silence, gliding like a ghost He vanish'd ! Lost among the deepening gloom.­ But near one ancient tree, whose wreathed roots Form'd a rude couch, love-songs and scatter'd rhymes, Unfinish'd sentences, or half erased, And rhapsodies like this, were sometimes found­ ­­­­­­ Let us to woodland wilds repair While yet the glittering night-dews seem To wait the freshly-breathing air, 31 Precursive of the morning beam, That rising with advancing day, Scatters the silver drops away. An elm, uprooted by the storm, The trunk with mosses gray and green, Shall make for us a rustic form, Where lighter grows the forest scene; And far among the bowery shades, Are ferny lawns and grassy glades. Retiring May to lovely June Her latest garland now resigns; The banks with cuckoo-flowers are strewn, The woodwalks blue with columbines, And with its reeds, the wandering stream Reflects the flag-flower's golden gleam. There, feathering down the turf to meet, Their shadowy arms the beeches spread, While high above our sylvan seat, Lifts the light ash its airy head; And later leaved, the oaks between Extend their bows of vernal green. The slender birch its paper rind Seems offering to divided love, And shuddering even without a wind Aspins, their paler foliage move, As if some spirit of the air Breath'd a low sigh in passing there. The Squirrel in his frolic mood, Will fearless bound among the boughs; Yaffils laugh loudly thro' the wood, And murmuring ring-doves tell their vows; While we, as sweetest woodscents rise, Listen to woodland melodies. And I'll contrive a sylvan room Against the time of summer heat, Where leaves, inwoven in Nature's loom, Shall canopy our green retreat; And gales that 'close the eye of day' Shall linger, e'er they die away. 32 And when a sear and sallow hue From early frost the bower receives, I'll dress the sand rock cave for you, And strew the floor with heath and leaves, That you, against the autumnal air May find securer shelter there. The Nightingale will then have ceas'd To sing her moonlight serenade; But the gay bird with blushing breast, And Woodlarks still will haunt the shade, And by the borders of the spring Reed-wrens will yet be carolling. The forest hermit's lonely cave None but such soothing sounds shall reach, Or hardly heard, the distant wave Slow breaking on the stony beach; Or winds, that now sigh soft and low, Now make wild music as they blow. And then, before the chilling North The tawny foliage falling light, Seems, as it flits along the earth, The footfall of the busy Sprite, Who wrapt in pale autumnal gloom, Calls up the mist-born Mushroom. Oh ! could I hear your soft voice there, And see you in the forest green All beauteous as you are, more fair You'ld look, amid the sylvan scene, And in a wood-girl's simple guise, Be still more lovely in mine eyes. Ye phantoms of unreal delight, Visions of fond delirium born ! Rise not on my deluded sight, Then leave me drooping and forlorn To know, such bliss can never be, Unless loved like me. The visionary, nursing dreams like these, Is not indeed unhappy. Summer woods Wave over him, and whisper as they wave, 33 Some future blessings he may yet enjoy. And as above him sail the silver clouds, He follows them in thought to distant climes, Where, far from the cold policy of this, Dividing him from her he fondly loves, He, in some island of the southern sea, May haply build his cane-constructed bower Beneath the bread-fruit, or aspiring palm, With long green foliage rippling in the gale. Oh ! let him cherish his ideal bliss­ For what is life, when Hope has ceas'd to strew Her fragile flowers along its thorny way ? And sad and gloomy are his days, who lives Of Hope abandon'd ! Just beneath the rock Where Beachy overpeers the channel wave, Within a cavern mined by wintry tides Dwelt one, who long disgusted with the world And all its ways, appear'd to suffer life Rather than live; the soul-reviving gale, Fanning the bean-field, or the thymy heath, Had not for many summers breathed on him; And nothing mark'd to him the season's change, Save that more gently rose the placid sea, And that the birds which winter on the coast Gave place to other migrants; save that the fog, Hovering no more above the beetling cliffs Betray'd not then the little careless sheep On the brink grazing, while their headlong fall Near the lone Hermit's flint-surrounded home, Claim'd unavailing pity; for his heart Was feelingly alive to all that breath'd; And outraged as he was, in sanguine youth, By human crimes, he still acutely felt For human misery. Wandering on the beach, He learn'd to augur from the clouds of heaven, And from the changing colours of the sea, And sullen murmurs of the hollow cliffs, 34 Or the dark porpoises, that near the shore Gambol'd and sported on the level brine When tempests were approaching: then at night He listen'd to the wind; and as it drove The billows with o'erwhelming vehemence He, starting from his rugged couch, went forth And hazarding a life, too valueless, He waded thro' the waves, with plank or pole Towards where the mariner in conflict dread Was buffeting for life the roaring surge; And now just seen, now lost in foaming gulphs, The dismal gleaming of the clouded moon Shew'd the dire peril. Often he had snatch'd From the wild billows, some unhappy man Who liv'd to bless the hermit of the rocks. But if his generous cares were all in vain, And with slow swell the tide of morning bore Some blue swol'n cor'se to land; the pale recluse Dug in the chalk a sepulchre­above Where the dank sea-wrack mark'd the utmost tide, And with his prayers perform'd the obsequies For the poor helpless stranger. One dark night The equinoctial wind blew south by west, Fierce on the shore; ­the bellowing cliffs were shook Even to their stony base, and fragments fell Flashing and thundering on the angry flood. At day-break, anxious for the lonely man, His cave the mountain shepherds visited, Tho' sand and banks of weeds had choak'd their way­ He was not in it; but his drowned cor'se By the waves wafted, near his former home Receiv'd the rites of burial. Those who read Chisel'd within the rock, these mournful lines, Memorials of his sufferings, did not grieve, That dying in the cause of charity His spirit, from its earthly bondage freed, Had to some better region fled for ever. 35 ~ Charlotte Smith,

878:The Moat House PART I UNDER the shade of convent towers, Where fast and vigil mark the hours, From childhood into youth there grew A maid as fresh as April dew, And sweet as May's ideal flowers, Brighter than dawn in wind-swept skies, Like children's dreams most pure, unwise, Yet with a slumbering soul-fire too, That sometimes shone a moment through Her wondrous unawakened eyes. The nuns, who loved her coldly, meant The twig should grow as it was bent; That she, like them, should watch youth's bier, Should watch her day-dreams disappear, And go the loveless way they went. The convent walls were high and grey; How could Love hope to find a way Into that citadel forlorn, Where his dear name was put to scorn, Or called a sinful thing to say? Yet Love did come; what need to tell Of flowers downcast, that sometimes fell Across her feet when dreamily She paced, with unused breviary, Down paths made still with August's spell-- Of looks cast through the chapel grate, 331 Of letters helped by Love and Fate, That to cold fingers did not come But lay within a warmer home, Upon her heart inviolate? Somehow he loved her--she loved him: Then filled her soul's cup to the brim, And all her daily life grew bright With such a flood of rosy light As turned the altar candles dim. But love that lights is love that leads, And lives upon the heart it feeds; Soon grew she pale though not less fair, And sighed his name instead of prayer, And told her heart-throbs, not her beads. How could she find the sunlight fair, A sunlight that he did not share? How could a rose smell sweet within The cruel bars that shut her in, And shut him out while she was there? He vowed her fealty firm and fast, Then to the winds her fears she cast; They found a way to cheat the bars, And in free air, beneath free stars, Free, and with him, she stood at last. 'Now to some priest,' he said, 'that he May give thee--blessing us--to me.' 'No priest,' she cried in doubt and fear, 'He would divide, not join us, dear. I am mine--I give myself to thee. 'Since thou and I are mine and thine, 332 What need to swear it at a shrine? Would love last longer if we swore That we would love for evermore? God gives me thee--and thou art mine.' 'God weds us now,' he said, 'yet still Some day shall we all forms fulfil. Eternal truth affords to smile At laws wherewith man marks his guile, Yet law shall join us--when you will. 'So look your last, my love, on these Forbidding walls and wooing trees. Farewell to grief and gloom,' said he; 'Farewell to childhood's joy,' said she; But neither said, 'Farewell to peace.' Song. My sweet, my sweet, She is complete From dainty head to darling feet; So warm and white, So brown and bright, So made for love and love's delight. God could but spare One flower so fair, There is none like her anywhere; Beneath wide skies The whole earth lies, But not two other such brown eyes. The world we're in, If one might win? Not worth that dimple in her chin A heaven to know? I'll let that go 333 But once to see her lids droop low Over her eyes, By love made wise: To see her bosom fall and rise Is more than worth The angels' mirth, And all the heaven-joys of earth. This is the hour Which gives me power To win and wear earth's whitest flower. Oh, Love, give grace, Through all life's ways Keep pure this heart, her dwelling place. II The fields were reaped and the pastures bare, And the nights grown windy and chill, When the lovers passed through the beech woods fair, And climbed the brow of the hill. In the hill's spread arm the Moat House lies With elm and willow tree; 'And is that your home at last?' she sighs. 'Our home at last,' laughs he. Across the bridge and into the hall Where the waiting housefolk were. 'This is my lady,' he said to them all, And she looked so sweet and fair That every maid and serving-boy God-blessed them then and there, And wished them luck, and gave them joy, For a happy, handsome pair. And only the old nurse shook her head: 334 'Too young,' she said, 'too young.' She noted that no prayers were read, No marriage bells were rung; No guests were called, no feast was spread, As was meet for a marriage tide; The young lord in the banquet hall broke bread Alone with his little bride. Yet her old heart warmed to the two, and blessed, They were both so glad and gay, By to-morrow and yesterday unoppressed, Fulfilled of the joy of to-day; Like two young birds in that dull old nest, So careless of coming care, So rapt in the other that each possessed, The two young lovers were. He was heir to a stern hard-natured race, That had held the Moat House long, But the gloom of his formal dwelling place Dissolved at her voice and song; So bright, so sweet, to the house she came, So winning of way and word, The household knew her by one pet name, 'My Lady Ladybird.' First love so rarely gets leave to bring, In our world where money is might, Its tender buds to blossoming With the sun of its own delight. We love at rose or at vintage prime, In the glare and heat of the day, Forgetting the dawn and the violet time, And the wild sweet scent of the may. These loved like children, like children played, The old house laughed with delight At her song of a voice, at the radiance made 335 By her dress's flashing flight. Up the dark oak stair, through the gallery's gloom, She ran like a fairy fleet, And ever her lover from room to room Fast followed her flying feet. They gathered the buds of the late-lived rose In the ordered garden ways, They walked through the sombre yew-walled close And threaded the pine woods maze, They rode through woods where their horses came Knee-deep through the rustling leaves, Through fields forlorn of the poppies' flame And bereft of their golden sheaves. In the mellow hush of October noon They rowed in the flat broad boat, Through the lily leaves so thickly strewn On the sunny side of the moat. They were glad of the fire of the beech-crowned hill, And glad of the pale deep sky, And the shifting shade that the willows made On the boat as she glided by. They roamed each room of the Moat House through And questioned the wraiths of the past, What legends rare the old dresses knew, And the swords, what had wet them last? What faces had looked through the lozenge panes, What shadows darkened the door, What feet had walked in the jewelled stains That the rich glass cast on the floor? She dressed her beauty in old brocade That breathed of loss and regret, In laces that broken hearts had swayed, In the days when the swords were wet; And the rubies and pearls laughed out and said, 336 'Though the lovers for whom we were set, And the women who loved us, have long been dead, Yet beauty and we live yet.' When the wild white winter's spectral hand Effaced the green and the red, And crushed the fingers brown of the land Till they grew death-white instead, The two found cheer in their dark oak room, And their dreams of a coming spring, For a brighter sun shone through winter's gloom Than ever a summer could bring. They sat where the great fires blazed in the hall, Where the wolf-skins lay outspread, The pictured faces looked down from the wall To hear his praise of the dead. He told her ghostly tales of the past, And legends rare of his house, Till she held her breath at the shade fire-cast, And the scamper-rush of the mouse, Till she dared not turn her head to see What shape might stand by her chair-Till she cried his name, and fled to his knee, And safely nestled there. Then they talked of their journey, the city's crowd, Of the convent's faint joy and pain, Till the ghosts of the past were laid in the shroud Of commonplace things again. So the winter died, and the baby spring, With hardly voice for a cry, And hands too weak the signs to bring That all men might know her by, Yet woke, and breathed through the soft wet air The promise of all things dear, And poets and lovers knew she was there, 337 And sang to their hearts, 'She is here.' Song. Soft is the ground underfoot, Soft are the skies overhead, Green is the ivy round brown hedge root, Green is the moss where we tread. Purple the woods are, and brown; The blackbird is glossy and sleek, He knows that the worms are no more kept down By frost out of reach of his beak. Grey are the sheep in the fold, Tired of their turnip and beet, Dreaming of meadow and pasture and wold, And turf the warm rain will make sweet. Leaves sleep, no bud wakens yet, But we know by the song of the sun, And the happy way that the world smiles, wet, That the spring--oh, be glad!--is begun. What stirs the heart of the tree? What stirs the seed the earth bears? What is it stirring in you and in me Longing for summer, like theirs?-Longing you cannot explain, Yearning that baffles me still! Ah! that each spring should bring longings again No summer can ever fulfil! III When all the world had echoed the song 338 That the poet and lover sang, When 'Glory to spring,' sweet, soft, and strong, From the ferny woods outrang, In wet green meadow, in hollow green, The primrose stars outshone, And the bluebells balanced their drooping sheen In copses lovely and lone. The green earth laughed, full of leaf and flower, The sky laughed too, full of sun; Was this the hour for a parting hour, With the heaven of spring just won? The woods and fields were echoing To a chorus of life and bliss. Oh, hard to sting the face of the spring With the smart of a parting kiss! A kinsman ailing, a summons sent To haste to his dying bed. 'Oh, cruel sentence of banishment! For my heart says 'Go'!' he said. 'So now good-bye to my home, my dear, To the spring we watched from its birth; There is no spring, oh, my sweet, but here, 'Tis winter all over the earth. 'But I come again, oh, spring of my life, You hold the cord in your hand That will draw me back, oh, my sweetheart wife, To the place where your dear feet stand; But a few short days, and my arms shall be Once more round your little head, And you will be weeping glad tears with me On the grave of our parting, dead! 'I leave you my heart for a short short while, It will ache if 'tis wrapped in fears; Keep it safe and warm in the sun of your smile, 339 Not wet with the rain of your tears. Be glad of the joy that shall soon be won, Be glad to-day, though we part; You shall weep for our parting when parting is done, And drop your tears on my heart.' Song. Good-bye, my love, my only dear, I know your heart is true And that it lingers here with me while mine fares forth with you. We part? Our hearts are almost one, and are so closely tied 'Tis yours that stirs my bosom-lace, mine beats against your side. So not at losing you I grieve, since heart and soul stay here, But all the gladness of my life, I cry to lose it, dear; Warmth of the sun, sweet of the rose, night's rest and light of day, I mourn for these, for if you go, you take them all away. You are sad too--not at leaving me, whose heart must with you go, But at the heaven you leave behind--ah, yes--you told me so, You said wherever you might go you could not ever find A spring so sweet, love so complete, as these you leave behind. No future joy will ever pay this moment's bitter ache, Yet I am glad to be so sad, since it is for your sake. You take so much, I do but wish that you could take the whole, Could take me, since you take my rest, my light, my joy, my soul. Song. Oh, love, I leave This springtide eve, When woods in sunset shine blood-red; The long road lies Before my eyes, My horse goes on with even tread. 340 I dare not turn These eyes that burn Back to the terrace where you lean; If I should see Your tears for me, I must turn back to dry them, O my queen! Yet I must go, Fate has it so, Duty spoke once, and I obey; Sadly I rise, Leave paradise, And turn my face the other way. Nothing is dear On earth but here, There is no joy away from you; What though there be New things to see, New friends, new faces, and adventures new? Yet since I may Not with you stay, Hey for the outer world of life! Brace limbs, shake rein, And seek again The hurry, jostle, jar and strife. Hey for the new! Yet, love, for you-I have loved you so--the last hand-kiss. How vast a world Lies here unfurled! How small, if sweet, home's inner round of bliss! The road bends right, 341 Leads out of sight, Here I may turn, nor fear to see; So far away, One could not say If you are weeping now for me. Behind this eve My love I leave, The big bright world spreads out before; Yet will I come, To you and home, Oh, love, and rest beneath your yoke once more. IV She stood upon the terrace, gazing still Down the long road to watch him out of sight, Dry-eyed at first, until the swelling hill Hid him. Then turned she to the garden bright, Whose ways held memories of lover's laughter, And lover's sadness that had followed after, Both born of passion's too intense delight. The garden knew her secrets, and its bowers Threw her her secrets back in mocking wise; ''Twas here he buried you in lilac flowers. Here while he slept you covered up his eyes With primroses. They died; and by that token Love, like a flower whose stalk has once been broken, Will live no more for all your tears and sighs.' The sundial that had marked their happy hours Cried out to her, 'I know that he is gone; So many twos have wreathed me round with flowers, And always one came afterwards alone, And always wept--even as you are weeping. The flowers while they lived were cold, shade keeping, But always through the tears the sun still shone.' 342 She left the garden; but the house still more Whispered, 'You love him--he has gone away.' Where fell her single footstep sighed the floor, 'Another foot than yours fell here to-day.' The very hound she stroked looked round and past her, Then in her face, and whined, 'Where is our master?' The whole house had the same one thing to say. Empty, without its soul, disconsolate, The great house was: through all the rooms went she, And every room was dark and desolate, Nothing seemed good to do or good to see. At last, upon the wolf-skins, worn with weeping, The old nurse found her, like a tired child, sleeping With face tear-stained, and sobbing brokenly. Wearily went the days, all sad the same, Yet each brought its own added heaviness. Why was it that no letter from him came To ease the burden of her loneliness? Why did he send no message, word, or greeting, To help her forward to their day of meeting, No written love--no black and white caress? At last there came a letter, sweet but brief, 'He was so busy--had no time for more.' No time! She had had time enough for grief, There never had been so much time before; And yet the letter lay within her bosom, Pressed closely to her breathing beauty's blossom, Worn for a balm, because her heart was sore. She knew not where he stayed, and so could send, Of all the letters that she wrote, not one; Hour after soft spring hour the child would spend In pouring out her soul, for, once begun, 343 The tale of all her love and grief flowed over Upon the letters that she wrote her lover, And that the fire read when the tale was done. And yet she never doubted he would come, If not before, yet when a baby's eyes Should look for him, when his deserted home Should waken to a baby's laughs and cries. 'He judges best--perhaps he comes to-morrow, But come he will, and we shall laugh at sorrow When in my arms our little baby lies.' And in the August days a soft hush fell Upon the house--the old nurse kept her place Beside the little wife--and all was well; After rapt anguish came a breathing space, And she, mid tears and smiles, white-faced, glad-eyed, Felt her wee baby move against her side, Kissed its small hands, worshipped its tiny face. Song. Oh, baby, baby, baby dear, We lie alone together here; The snowy gown and cap and sheet With lavender are fresh and sweet; Through half-closed blinds the roses peer To see and love you, baby dear. We are so tired, we like to lie Just doing nothing, you and I, Within the darkened quiet room. The sun sends dusk rays through the gloom, Which is no gloom since you are here, My little life, my baby dear. Soft sleepy mouth so vaguely pressed Against your new-made mother's breast, 344 Soft little hands in mine I fold, Soft little feet I kiss and hold, Round soft smooth head and tiny ear, All mine, my own, my baby dear. And he we love is far away! But he will come some happy day. You need but me, and I can rest At peace with you beside me pressed. There are no questions, longings vain, No murmuring, nor doubt, nor pain, Only content and we are here, My baby dear. PART II While winged Love his pinions folded in the Moat House by the hill, In the city there was anger, doubt, distrust, and thoughts of ill; For his kinsmen, hearing rumours of the life the lovers led, Wept, and wrung their hands, and sorrowed--'Better that the lad were dead Than to live thus--he, the son of proudest man and noblest earl-Thus in open sin with her, a nameless, shameless, foreign girl.' (Ever when they thus lamented, 'twas the open sin they named, Till one wondered whether sinning, if less frank, had been less blamed.) ''Tis our duty to reclaim him--mate him to a noble bride Who shall fitly grace his station, and walk stately by his side-Gently loose him from the fetters of this siren fair and frail (In such cases time and absence nearly always will prevail). He shall meet the Duke's fair daughter--perfect, saintly Lady May-Beauty is the surest beacon to a young man gone astray! Not at all precipitately, but with judgment sure and fine, We will rescue and redeem him from his shameful husks and swine. So--his uncle's long been ailing (gout and dropsy for his sins)-Let that serve for pretext; hither bring the youth--his cure begins.' So they summoned him and welcomed, and their utmost efforts bent 345 To snatch back a brand from burning and a soul from punishment-Sought to charm him with their feastings, each more sumptuous than the last, From his yearning recollections of his very sinful past-Strove to wipe his wicked doings from his memory's blotted By the chaster, purer interests of the ball-room and the stage. And for Lady May--they hinted to the girl, child-innocent, That her hand to save the sinner by her Saviour had been sent, That her voice might bring his voice her Master's triumph choir to swell, And might save a man from sorrow and a human soul from hell. So she used her maiden graces, maiden glances, maiden smiles, To protect the erring pilgrim from the devil's subtle wiles-Saw him daily, sent him letters, pious verses by the score, Every angel's trap she baited with her sweet religious lore-Ventured all she knew, not knowing that her beauty and her youth Were far better to bait traps with than her odds and ends of truth. First he listened, vain and flattered that a girl as fair as she Should be so distinctly anxious for his lost humanity, Yet determined no attentions, even from the Lady May, Should delay his home-returning one unnecessary day. But as she--heart-wrung with pity for his erring soul--grew kind, Fainter, fainter grew the image of his sweetheart left behind; Till one day May spoke of sorrow--prayed him to reform--repent, Urged the festival in heaven over every penitent; Bold in ignorance, spoke vaguely and low-toned of sin and shame, And at last her voice, half breathless, faltered, broke upon his name, And two tears fell from her lashes on the roses at her breast, Far more potent in their silence than her preaching at its best. And his weak soul thrilled and trembled at her beauty, and he cried, 'Not for me those priceless tears: I am your slave--you shall decide.' 'Save your soul,' she sighed. 'Was ever man so tempted, tried, before? It is yours!' and at the word his soul was lost for evermore. Never woman pure and saintly did the devil's work so well! Never soul ensnared for heaven took a surer road to hell! Lady May had gained her convert, loved him, and was satisfied, And before the last leaves yellowed she would kneel down as his bride. She was happy, and he struggled to believe that perfidy Was repentance--reformation was not one with cruelty, 346 Yet through all congratulations, friends' smiles, lovers' flatteries, Lived a gnawing recollection of the lost love harmonies. In the day he crushed it fiercely, kept it covered out of sight, But it held him by the heart-strings and came boldly out at night: In the solemn truthful night his soul shrank shuddering from its lies, And his base self knew its baseness, and looked full in its false eyes. In the August nights, when all the sky was deep and toneless blue, And the gold star-points seemed letting the remembered sunlight through, When the world was hushed and peaceful in the moonlight's searching white, He would toss and cast his arms out through the silence and the night To those eyes that through the night and through the silence came again, Haunting him with the persistence and the passion of their pain. 'Oh, my little love--my sweetheart--oh, our past--our sweet love-day-Oh, if I were only true--or you were only Lady May!' But the sunshine scared the vision, and he rose once more love-warm To the Lady May's perfections and his own proposed reform. Coward that he was! he could not write and break that loving heart: To the worn-out gouty kinsman was assigned that pleasing part. 'Say it kindly,' said her lover, 'always friends--I can't forget-We must meet no more--but give her tenderest thought and all regret; Bid her go back to the convent--she and I can't meet as friends-Offer her a good allowance--any terms to make amends For what nought could make amends for--for my baseness and my sin. Oh, I know which side the scale this deed of mine will figure in! Curse reform!--she may forget me--'tis on me the burdens fall, For I love her only, solely--not the Lady May at all!' 'Patience,' said the uncle, 'patience, this is but the natural pain When a young man turns from sinning to the paths of grace again. Your wild oats are sown--you're plighted to the noble Lady May (Whose estates adjoin your manor in a providential way). Do your duty, sir, for surely pangs like these are such as win Pardon and the heavenly blessing on the sinner weaned from sin.' Song. Day is fair, and so is she Whom so soon I wed; 347 But the night, when memory Guards my sleepless bed, And with cold hands brings once more Thorns from rose-sweet days of yore-Night I curse and dread. Day is sweet, as sweet as her Girlish tenderness; But the night, when near me stir Rustlings of a dress, Echoes of a loving tone Now renounced, forsworn, foregone, Night is bitterness. Day can stir my blood like wine Or her beauty's fire, But at night I burn and pine, Torture, turn and tire, With a longing that is pain, Just to kiss and clasp again Love's one lost desire. Day is glad and pure and bright, Pure, glad, bright as she; But the sad and guilty night Outlives day--for me. Oh, for days when day and night Equal balance of delight Were alike to me! In the day I see my feet Walk in steadfast wise, Following my lady sweet To her Paradise, Like some stray-recovered lamb; But I see the beast I am When the night stars rise. 348 Yet in wedding day there lies Magic--so they say; Ghosts will have no chance to rise Near my Lady May. Vain the hope! In good or ill Those lost eyes will haunt me still Till my dying day. II Quickly died the August roses, and the kin of Lady May Dowered her richly, blessed her freely, and announced her wedding day; And his yearnings and remorses fainter grew as days went on 'Neath the magic of the beauty of the woman he had won; And less often and less strongly was his fancy caught and crossed By remembrance of the dearness of the woman he had lost. Long sweet mornings in the boudoir where the flowers stood about, Whisperings in the balcony when stars and London lamps came out, Concerts, flower shows, garden parties, balls and dinners, rides and drives, All the time-killing distractions of these fashionable lives; Dreary, joyless as a desert, pleasure's everlasting way, But enchantment can make lovely even deserts, so they say, Sandy waste, or waste of London season, where no green leaf grows, Shone on but by love or passion, each will blossom like the rose! Came no answer to the letter that announced his marriage day; But his people wrote that Lady Ladybird had gone away. So he sent to bid get ready to receive his noble wife. Two such loving women granted to one man, and in one life! Though he shuddered to remember with what ghosts the Moat House swarmed-Ghosts of lovely days and dreamings ere the time when he reformed-Yet he said, 'She cannot surely greatly care, or I had heard Some impulsive, passionate pleading, had some sorrowing written word; She has journeyed to her convent--will be glad as ere I came, Through her beauty's dear enchantment, to a life of shameless shame; And the memories of her dearness passion's flaming sword shall slay, When the Moat House sees the bridal of myself and Lady May!' III 349 Bright the mellow autumn sunshine glows upon the wedding day; Lawns are swept from leaves, and doorways are wreathed round with garlands gay, Flowery arches span the carriage drive from grass again to grass, Flowers are ready for the flinging when the wedded pair shall pass; Bells are ringing, clanging, clamouring from the belfry 'mid the trees, And the sound rings out o'er woodlands, parks and gardens, lawns and leas; All the village gay with banners waits the signal, 'Here they come!' To strew flowers, wave hats, drop curtseys, and hurra its 'Welcome home!' At the gates the very griffins on the posts are wreathed with green. In their ordered lines wait servants for the pair to pass between; But among them there is missing more than one familiar face, And new faces, blank expectant, fill up each vacated place, And the other servants whisper, 'Nurse would wail to see this day, It was well she left the service when 'my Lady' ran away.' Louder, clearer ring the joy-bells through the shaken, shattered air, Till the echoes of them waken in the hillside far and fair; Level shine the golden sunbeams in the golden afternoon. In the east the wan ghost rises of the silver harvest moon. Hark! wheels was it? No, but fancy. Listen! No--yes--can you hear? Yes, it is the coming carriage rolling nearer and more near! Till the horse-hoofs strike the roadway, unmistakable and clear! They are coming! shout your welcome to my lord and lady fair: May God shower his choicest blessings on the happy wedded pair! Here they are! the open carriage and surrounding dusty cloud, Whence he smiles his proud acceptance of the homage of the crowd; And my lady's sweet face! Bless her! there's a one will help the poor, Eyes like those could never turn a beggar helpless from her door! Welcome, welcome! scatter flowers: see, they smile--bow left and right, Reach the lodge gates--God of heaven! what was that, the flash of white? Shehas sprung out from the ambush of the smiling, cheering crowd: 'Fling your flowers--here's my welcome!' sharp the cry rings out and loud. Sudden sight of wild white face, and haggard eyes, and outstretched hands-Just one heart-beat's space before the bridal pair that figure stands, Then the horses, past controlling, forward bound, their hoofs down thrust-And the carriage wheels jolt over something bloody in the dust. 'Stop her! Stop her! Stop the horses!' cry the people all too late, 350 For my lord and Lady May have had their welcome at their gate. 'Twas the old nurse who sprang to her, raised the brown-haired, dust-soiled head, Looked a moment, closed the eyelids--then turned to my lord and said, Kneeling still upon the roadway, with her arm flung round the dead, While the carriage waited near her, blood and dust upon its wheels (Ask my lord within to tell you how a happy bridegroom feels): 'Now, my lord, you are contented; you have chosen for your bride This same fine and dainty lady who is sitting by your side. Did ye tell her ere this bridal of the girl who bore your shame, Bore your love-vows--bore your baby--everything except your name? When they strewed the flowers to greet you, and the banners were unfurled, She has flung before your feet the sweetest flower in all the world! Woe's the day I ever nursed you--loved your lisping baby word, For you grew to name of manhood, and to title of my lord; Woe's the day you ever saw her, brought her home to wreck her life, Throwing by your human plaything, to seek out another wife. God will judge, and I would rather be the lost child lying there, With your babe's milk in her bosom, your horse-hoof marks on her hair, Than be you when God shall thunder, when your days on earth are filled, 'Where is she I gave, who loved you, whom you ruined, left and killed?' Murderer, liar, coward, traitor, look upon your work and say That your heart is glad within you on your happy wedding day! And for you, my noble lady, take my blessing on your head, Though it is not like the blessing maidens look for when they wed. Never bride had such a welcome, such a flower laid on her way, As was given you when your carriage crushed her out of life to-day. Take my blessing--see her body, see what you and he have done-And I wish you joy, my lady, of the bridegroom you have won.' Like a beaten cur, that trembles at the whistling of the lash, He stands listening, hands a-tremble, face as pale as white wood ash; But the Lady May springs down, her soul shines glorious in her eyes, Moving through the angry silence comes to where the other lies, Gazes long upon her silent, but at last she turns her gaze On the nurse, and lips a-tremble, hands outstretched, she slowly says, 'She is dead--but, but her baby--' all her woman's heart is wild 351 With an infinite compassion for the little helpless child. Then she turns to snatch the baby from the arms of one near by, Holds it fast and looks towards him with a voiceless bitter cry, As imploring him to loose her from some nightmare's deadly bands. Dogged looks he down and past her, and she sees and understands, Then she speaks--'I keep your baby--that's my right in sight of men, But by God I vow I'll never see your dastard face again.' So she turned with no word further towards the purple-clouded west, And passed thither with his baby clasped against her maiden breast. Little Ladybird was buried in the old ancestral tomb. From that grave there streams a shadow that wraps up his life in gloom, And he drags the withered life on, longs for death that will not come, The interminable night hours riven by that 'Welcome home!' And he dares not leave this earthly hell of sharp remorse behind, Lest through death not rest but hotter fire of anguish he should find. Coward to the last, he will not risk so little for so much, So he burns, convicted traitor, in the hell self-made of such: And at night he wakes and shivers with unvanquishable dread At the ghosts that press each other for a place beside his bed, And he shudders to remember all the dearness that is dead. Song. I had a soul, Not strong, but following good if good but led. I might have kept it clean and pure and whole, And given it up at last, grown strong with days Of steadfast striving in truth's stern sweet ways; Instead, I soiled and smutched and smothered it With poison-flowers it valued not one whit-Now it is dead. I had a heart Most true, most sweet, that on my loving fed. I might have kept her all my life, a part Of all my life--I let her starve and pine, Ruined her life and desolated mine. Sin brushed my lips--I yielded at a touch, 352 Tempted so little, and I sinned so much, And she is dead. There was a life That in my sin I took and chained and wed, And made--perpetual remorse!--my wife. In my sin's harvest she must reap her share, That makes its sheaves less light for me to bear. Oh, life I might have left to bloom and grow! I struck its root of happiness one blow, And it is dead. Once joy I had, Now I have only agony instead, That maddens, yet will never send me mad. The best that comes is numbed half-sick despair, Remembering how sweet the dear dead were. My whole life might have been one clear joy song! Now--oh, my heart, how still life is, how long, For joy is dead. Yet there is this: I chose the thorns not grapes, the stones not bread; I had my chance, they say, to gain or miss. And yet I feel it was predestinate From the first hour, from the first dawn of fate, That I, thus placed, when that hour should arise, Must act thus, and could not act otherwise. This is the worst of all that can be said; For hope is dead. ~ Edith Nesbit,

879:DRAMATIS PERSONAE King Charles I. Queen Henrietta. Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury. Wentworth, Earl of Strafford. Lord Cottington. Lord Weston. Lord Coventry. Williams, Bishop of Lincoln. Secretary Lyttelton. Juxon. St. John. Archy, the Court Fool. Hampden. Pym. Cromwell. Cromwell's Daughter. Sir Harry Vane the younger. Leighton. Bastwick. Prynne. Gentlemen of the Inns of Court, Citizens, Pursuivants, Marshalsmen, Law Students, Judges, Clerk. Scene I. ---The Masque of the Inns of Court. A Pursuivant. Place, for the Marshal of the Masque! First Citizen. What thinkest thou of this quaint masque which turns, Like morning from the shadow of the night, The night to day, and London to a place Of peace and joy? Second Citizen.          And Hell to Heaven. Eight years are gone, And they seem hours, since in this populous street I trod on grass made green by summer's rain, For the red plague kept state within that palace Where now that vanity reigns. In nine years more The roots will be refreshed with civil blood; And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven That sin and wrongs wound, as an orphan's cry, The patience of the great Avenger's ear. A Youth. Yet, father, 'tis a happy sight to see, Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden By God or man;'tis like the bright procession Of skiey visions in a solemn dream From which men wake as from a Paradise, And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life. If God be good, wherefore should this be evil? And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw Unseasonable poison from the flowers Which bloom so rarely in this barren world? Oh, kill these bitter thoughts which make the present Dark as the future!. . . When Avarice and Tyranny, vigilant Fear, And open-eyed Conspiracy lie sleeping As on Hell's threshold; and all gentle thoughts Waken to worship Him who giveth joys With His own gift. Second Citizen. How young art thou in this old age of time! How green in this gray world? Canst thou discern The signs of seasons, yet perceive no hint Of change in that stage-scene in which thou art Not a spectator but an actor? or Art thou a puppet moved by [enginery]? The day that dawns in fire will die in storms, Even though the noon be calm. My travel's done, Before the whirlwind wakes I shall have found My inn of lasting rest; but thou must still Be journeying on in this inclement air. Wrap thy old cloak about thy back; Nor leave the broad and plain and beaten road, Although no flowers smile on the trodden dust, For the violet paths of pleasure. This Charles the First Rose like the equinoctial sun, . . . By vapours, through whose threatening ominous veil Darting his altered influence he has gained This height of noonfrom which he must decline Amid the darkness of conflicting storms, To dank extinction and to latest night . . . There goes The apostate Strafford; he whose titles whispered aphorisms From Machiavel and Bacon: and, if Judas Had been as brazen and as bold as he First Citizen.                      That Is the Archbishop. Second Citizen.           Rather say the Pope: London will be soon his Rome: he walks As if he trod upon the heads of men: He looks elate, drunken with blood and gold; Beside him moves the Babylonian woman Invisibly, and with her as with his shadow, Mitred adulterer! he is joined in sin, Which turns Heaven's milk of mercy to revenge. Third Citizen (lifting up his eyes). Good Lord! rain it down upon him! . . . Amid her ladies walks the papist queen, As if her nice feet scorned our English earth. The Canaanitish Jezebel! I would be A dog if I might tear her with my teeth! There's old Sir Henry Vane, the Earl of Pembroke, Lord Essex, and Lord Keeper Coventry, And others who make base their English breed By vile participation of their honours With papists, atheists, tyrants, and apostates. When lawyers masque 'tis time for honest men To strip the vizor from their purposes. A seasonable time for masquers this! When Englishmen and Protestants should sit . . . dust on their dishonoured heads, To avert the wrath of Him whose scourge is felt For the great sins which have drawn down from Heaven . . . and foreign overthrow. The remnant of the martyred saints in Rochefort Have been abandoned by their faithless allies To that idolatrous and adulterous torturer Lewis of France,the Palatinate is lost Enter Leighton (who has been branded in the face) and Bastwick. Canst thou be -- art thou? -- Leighton.               I was Leighton: what I am thou seest. And yet turn thine eyes, And with thy memory look on thy friend's mind, Which is unchanged, and where is written deep The sentence of my judge. Third Citizen.               Are these the marks with which Laud thinks to improve the image of his Maker Stamped on the face of man? Curses upon him, The impious tyrant! Second Citizen.           It is said besides That lewd and papist drunkards may profane The Sabbath with their... And has permitted that most heathenish custom Of dancing round a pole dressed up with wreaths On May-day. A man who thus twice crucifies his God May well...his brother.In my mind, friend, The root of all this ill is prelacy. I would cut up the root. Third Citizen.              And by what means? Second Citizen. Smiting each Bishop under the fifth rib. Third Citizen. You seem to know the vulnerable place Of these same crocodiles. Second Citizen.               I learnt it in Egyptian bondage, sir. Your worm of Nile Betrays not with its flattering tears like they; For, when they cannot kill, they whine and weep. Nor is it half so greedy of men's bodies As they of soul and all; nor does it wallow In slime as they in simony and lies And close lusts of the flesh. A Marshalsman.                 Give place, give place! You torch-bearers, advance to the great gate, And then attend the Marshal of the Masque Into the Royal presence. A Law Student.              What thinkest thou Of this quaint show of ours, my agd friend? Even now we see the redness of the torches Inflame the night to the eastward, and the clarions [Gasp?] to us on the wind's wave. It comes! And their sounds, floating hither round the pageant, Rouse up the astonished air. First Citizen. I will not think but that our country's wounds May yet be healed. The king is just and gracious, Though wicked counsels now pervert his will: These once cast off Second Citizen.            As adders cast their skins And keep their venom, so kings often change; Councils and counsellors hang on one another, Hiding the loathsome Like the base patchwork of a leper's rags. The Youth. Oh, still those dissonant thoughts!List how the music Grows on the enchanted air! And see, the torches Restlessly flashing, and the crowd divided Like waves before an admiral's prow! A Marshalsman.                     Give place To the Marshal of the Masque! A Pursuivant.                 Room for the King! The Youth. How glorious! See those thronging chariots Rolling, like painted clouds before the wind, Behind their solemn steeds: how some are shaped Like curved sea-shells dyed by the azure depths Of Indian seas; some like the new-born moon; And some like cars in which the Romans climbed (Canopied by Victory's eagle-wings outspread) The CapitolianSee how gloriously The mettled horses in the torchlight stir Their gallant riders, while they check their pride, Like shapes of some diviner element Than English air, and beings nobler than The envious and admiring multitude. Second Citizen. Ay, there they are Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees, Monopolists, and stewards of this poor farm, On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic crows, Here is the pomp that strips the houseless orphan, Here is the pride that breaks the desolate heart. These are the lilies glorious as Solomon, Who toil not, neither do they spin,unless It be the webs they catch poor rogues withal. Here is the surfeit which to them who earn The ****rd wages of the earth, scarce leaves The tithe that will support them till they crawl Back to her cold hard bosom. Here is health Followed by grim disease, glory by shame, Waste by lame famine, wealth by squalid want, And England's sin by England's punishment. And, as the effect pursues the cause foregone, Lo, giving substance to my words, behold At once the sign and the thing signified A troop of cripples, beggars, and lean outcasts, Horsed upon stumbling jades, carted with dung, Dragged for a day from cellars and low cabins And rotten hiding-holes, to point the moral Of this presentment, and bring up the rear Of painted pomp with misery! The Youth.                'Tis but The anti-masque, and serves as discords do In sweetest music. Who would love May flowers If they succeeded not to Winter's flaw; Or day unchanged by night; or joy itself Without the touch of sorrow? Second Citizen.                I and thou A Marshalsman. Place, give place! Scene II. A Chamber in Whitehall. Enter the King, Queen, Laud, Lord Strafford, Lord Cottington, and other Lords;Archy ; also St. John, with some Gentlemen of the Inns of Court. King. Thanks, gentlemen. I heartily accept This token of your service: your gay masque Was performed gallantly. And it shows well When subjects twine such flowers of [observance?] With the sharp thorns that deck the English crown. A gentle heart enjoys what it confers, Even as it suffers that which it inflicts, Though Justice guides the stroke. Accept my hearty thanks. Queen.              And gentlemen, Call your poor Queen your debtor. Your quaint pageant Rose on me like the figures of past years, Treading their still path back to infancy, More beautiful and mild as they draw nearer The quiet cradle. I could have almost wept To think I was in Paris, where these shows Are well devisedsuch as I was ere yet My young heart shared a portion of the burthen, The careful weight, of this great monarchy. There, gentlemen, between the sovereign's pleasure And that which it regards, no clamour lifts Its proud interposition. In Paris ribald censurers dare not move Their poisonous tongues against these sinless sports; And his smile Warms those who bask in it, as ours would do If...Take my heart's thanks: add them, gentlemen, To those good words which, were he King of France, My royal lord would turn to golden deeds. St. John. Madam, the love of Englishmen can make The lightest favour of their lawful king Outweigh a despot's.We humbly take our leaves, Enriched by smiles which France can never buy. [Exeunt St. John and the Gentlemen of the Inns of Court. King. My Lord Archbishop, Mark you what spirit sits in St. John's eyes? Methinks it is too saucy for this presence. Archy. Yes, pray your Grace look: for, like an unsophisticated [eye] sees everything upside down, you who are wise will discern the shadow of an idiot in lawn sleeves and a rochet setting springes to catch woodcocks in haymaking time. Poor Archy, whose owl-eyes are tempered to the error of his age, and because he is a fool, and by special ordinance of God forbidden ever to see himself as he is, sees now in that deep eye a blindfold devil sitting on the ball, and weighing words out between king and subjects. One scale is full of promises, and the other full of protestations: and then another devil creeps behind the first out of the dark windings [of a] pregnant lawyer's brain, and takes the bandage from the other's eyes, and throws a sword into the left-hand scale, for all the world like my Lord Essex's there. Strafford. A rod in pickle for the Fool's back! Archy. Ay, and some are now smiling whose tears will make the brine; for the Fool sees-- Strafford. Insolent! You shall have your coat turned and be whipped out of the palace for this. Archy. When all the fools are whipped, and all the Protestant writers, while the knaves are whipping the fools ever since a thief was set to catch a thief. If all turncoats were whipped out of palaces, poor Archy would be disgraced in good company. Let the knaves whip the fools, and all the fools laugh at it. [Let the] wise and godly slit each other's noses and ears (having no need of any sense of discernment in their craft); and the knaves, to marshal them, join in a procession to Bedlam, to entreat the madmen to omit their sublime Platonic contemplations, and manage the state of England. Let all the honest men who lie [pinched?] up at the prisons or the pillories, in custody of the pursuivants of the High-Commission Court, marshal them. Enter Secretary Lyttelton, with papers. King (looking over the papers). These stiff Scots His Grace of Canterbury must take order To force under the Church's yoke.You, Wentworth, Shall be myself in Ireland, and shall add Your wisdom, gentleness, and energy, To what in me were wanting.My Lord Weston, Look that those merchants draw not without loss Their bullion from the Tower; and, on the payment Of shipmoney, take fullest compensation For violation of our royal forests, Whose limits, from neglect, have been o'ergrown With cottages and cornfields. The uttermost Farthing exact from those who claim exemption From knighthood: that which once was a reward Shall thus be made a punishment, that subjects May know how majesty can wear at will The rugged mood.My Lord of Coventry, Lay my command upon the Courts below That bail be not accepted for the prisoners Under the warrant of the Star Chamber. The people shall not find the stubbornness Of Parliament a cheap or easy method Of dealing with their rightful sovereign: And doubt not this, my Lord of Coventry, We will find time and place for fit rebuke. My Lord of Canterbury. Archy.             The fool is here. Laud. I crave permission of your Majesty To order that this insolent fellow be Chastised: he mocks the sacred character, Scoffs at the state, and-- King.               What, my Archy? He mocks and mimics all he sees and hears, Yet with a quaint and graceful licencePrithee For this once do not as Prynne would, were he Primate of England. With your Grace's leave, He lives in his own world; and, like a parrot Hung in his gilded prison from the window Of a queen's bower over the public way, Blasphemes with a bird's mind:his words, like arrows Which know no aim beyond the archer's wit, Strike sometimes what eludes philosophy. (To Archy.) Go, sirrah, and repent of your offence Ten minutes in the rain; be it your penance To bring news how the world goes there. [Exit Archy.                       Poor Archy! He weaves about himself a world of mirth Out of the wreck of ours. Laud. I take with patience, as my Master did, All scoffs permitted from above. King.                  My lord, Pray overlook these papers. Archy's words Had wings, but these have talons. Queen.                   And the lion That wears them must be tamed. My dearest lord, I see the new-born courage in your eye Armed to strike dead the Spirit of the Time, Which spurs to rage the many-headed beast. Do thou persist: for, faint but in resolve, And it were better thou hadst still remained The slave of thine own slaves, who tear like curs The fugitive, and flee from the pursuer; And Opportunity, that empty wolf, Flies at his throat who falls. Subdue thy actions Even to the disposition of thy purpose, And be that tempered as the Ebro's steel; And banish weak-eyed Mercy to the weak, Whence she will greet thee with a gift of peace, And not betray thee with a traitor's kiss, As when she keeps the company of rebels, Who think that she is Fear. This do, lest we Should fall as from a glorious pinnacle In a bright dream, and wake as from a dream Out of our worshipped state. King.                Belovd friend, God is my witness that this weight of power, Which He sets me my earthly task to wield. Under His law, is my delight and pride Only because thou lovest that and me. For a king bears the office of a God To all the under world; and to his God Alone he must deliver up his trust, Unshorn of its permitted attributes. [It seems] now as the baser elements Had mutinied against the golden sun That kindles them to harmony and quells Their self-destroying rapine. The wild million Strike at the eye that guides them; like as humours Of the distempered body that conspire Against the spirit of life throned in the heart, And thus become the prey of one another, And last of death Strafford. That which would be ambition in a subject Is duty in a sovereign; for on him, As on a keystone, hangs the arch of life, Whose safety is its strength. Degree and form, And all that makes the age of reasoning man More memorable than a beast's, depend on this-- That Right should fence itself inviolably With Power; in which respect the state of England From usurpation by the insolent commons Cries for reform. Get treason, and spare treasure. Fee with coin The loudest murmurers; feed with jealousies Opposing factions,-- be thyself of none; And borrow gold of many, for those who lend Will serve thee till thou payest them; and thus Keep the fierce spirit of the hour at bay, Till time, and its coming generations Of nights and days unborn, bring some one chance,... Or war or pestilence or Nature's self,-- By some distemperature or terrible sign, Be as an arbiter betwixt themselves. ...Nor let your Majesty Doubt here the peril of the unseen event. How did your brother Kings, coheritors In your high interest in the subject earth, Rise past such troubles to that height of power Where now they sit, and awfully serene Smile on the trembling world? Such popular storms Philip the Second of Spain, this Lewis of France, And late the German head of many bodies, And every petty lord of Italy, Quelled or by arts or arms. Is England poorer Or feebler? or art thou who wield'st her power Tamer than they? or shall this island be-- [Girdled] by its inviolable waters To the world present and the world to come Sole pattern of extinguished monarchy? Not if thou dost as I would have thee do. King. Your words shall be my deeds: You speak the image of my thought. My friend (If Kings can have a friend, I call thee so), Beyond the large commission which [belongs] Under the great seal of the realm, take this: And, for some obvious reasons, let there be No seal on it, except my kingly word And honour as I am a gentleman. Be -- as thou art within my heart and mind-- Another self, here and in Ireland: Do what thou judgest well, take amplest licence, And stick not even at questionable means. Hear me, Wentworth. My word is as a wall Between thee and this world thine enemy That hates thee, for thou lovest me. Strafford.                     I own No friend but thee, no enemies but thine: Thy lightest thought is my eternal law. How weak, how short, is life to pay King.                     Peace, peace. Thou ow'st me nothing yet.               (To Laud.) My lord, what say Those papers? Laud. Your Majesty has ever interposed, In lenity towards your native soil, Between the heavy vengeance of the Church And Scotland. Mark the consequence of warming This brood of northern vipers in your bosom. The rabble, instructed no doubt By Loudon, Lindsay, Hume, and false Argyll (For the waves never menace heaven until Scourged by the wind's invisible tyranny), Have in the very temple of the Lord Done outrage to His chosen ministers. They scorn the liturgy of the Holy Church, Refuse to obey her canons, and deny The apostolic power with which the Spirit Has filled its elect vessels, even from him Who held the keys with power to loose and bind, To him who now pleads in this royal presence. Let ample powers and new instructions be Sent to the High Commissioners in Scotland. To death, imprisonment, and confiscation, Add torture, add the ruin of the kindred Of the offender, add the brand of infamy, Add mutilation: and if this suffice not, Unleash the sword and fire, that in their thirst They may lick up that scum of schismatics. I laugh at those weak rebels who, desiring What we possess, still prate of Christian peace, As if those dreadful arbitrating messengers Which play the part of God 'twixt right and wrong, Should be let loose against the innocent sleep Of templed cities and the smiling fields, For some poor argument of policy Which touches our own profit or our pride (Where it indeed were Christian charity To turn the cheek even to the smiter's hand): And, when our great Redeemer, when our God, When He who gave, accepted, and retained Himself in propitiation of our sins, Is scorned in His immediate ministry, With hazard of the inestimable loss Of all the truth and discipline which is Salvation to the extremest generation Of men innumerable, they talk of peace! Such peace as Canaan found, let Scotland now: For, by that Christ who came to bring a sword, Not peace, upon the earth, and gave command To His disciples at the Passover That each should sell his robe and buy a sword, Once strip that minister of naked wrath, And it shall never sleep in peace again Till Scotland bend or break. King.                My Lord Archbishop, Do what thou wilt and what thou canst in this. Thy earthly even as thy heavenly King Gives thee large power in his unquiet realm. But we want money, and my mind misgives me That for so great an enterprise, as yet, We are unfurnished. Strafford.           Yet it may not long Rest on our wills. Cottington.           The expenses Of gathering shipmoney, and of distraining For every petty rate (for we encounter A desperate opposition inch by inch In every warehouse and on every farm), Have swallowed up the gross sum of the imposts; So that, though felt as a most grievous scourge Upon the land, they stand us in small stead As touches the receipt. Strafford.             'Tis a conclusion Most arithmetical: and thence you infer Perhaps the assembling of a parliament. Now, if a man should call his dearest enemies To sit in licensed judgement on his life, His Majesty might wisely take that course. [Aside to Cottington. It is enough to expect from these lean imposts That they perform the office of a scourge, Without more profit. (Aloud.) Fines and confiscations, And a forced loan from the refractory city, Will fill our coffers: and the golden love Of loyal gentlemen and noble friends For the worshipped father of our common country, With contributions from the catholics, Will make Rebellion pale in our excess. Be these the expedients until time and wisdom Shall frame a settled state of government. Laud. And weak expedients they! Have we not drained All, till the...which seemed A mine exhaustless? Strafford.           And the love which is, If loyal hearts could turn their blood to gold. Laud. Both now grow barren: and I speak it not As loving parliaments, which, as they have been In the right hand of bold bad mighty kings The scourges of the bleeding Church, I hate. Methinks they scarcely can deserve our fear. Strafford. Oh! my dear liege, take back the wealth thou gavest: With that, take all I held, but as in trust For thee, of mine inheritance: leave me but This unprovided body for thy service, And a mind dedicated to no care Except thy safety:-- but assemble not A parliament. Hundreds will bring, like me, Their fortunes, as they would their blood, before-- King. No! thou who judgest them art but one. Alas! We should be too much out of love with Heaven, Did this vile world show many such as thee, Thou perfect, just, and honourable man! Never shall it be said that Charles of England Stripped those he loved for fear of those he scorns; Nor will he so much misbecome his throne As to impoverish those who most adorn And best defend it. That you urge, dear Strafford, Inclines me rather-- Queen.            To a parliament? Is this thy firmness? and thou wilt preside Over a knot of . . . censurers, To the unswearing of thy best resolves, And choose the worst, when the worst comes too soon? Plight not the worst before the worst must come. Oh, wilt thou smile whilst our ribald foes, Dressed in their own usurped authority, Sharpen their tongues on Henrietta's fame? It is enough! Thou lovest me no more! [Weeps. King. Oh, Henrietta! [They talk apart. Cottington (to Laud).        Money we have none: And all the expedients of my Lord of Strafford Will scarcely meet the arrears. Laud.                  Without delay An army must be sent into the north; Followed by a Commission of the Church, With amplest power to quench in fire and blood, And tears and terror, and the pity of hell, The intenser wrath of Heresy. God will give Victory; and victory over Scotland give The lion England tamed into our hands. That will lend power, and power bring gold. Cottington.                    Meanwhile We must begin first where your Grace leaves off. Gold must give power, or Laud.               I am not averse From the assembling of a parliament. Strong actions and smooth words might teach them soon The lesson to obey. And are they not A bubble fashioned by the monarch's mouth, The birth of one light breath? If they serve no purpose, A word dissolves them. Strafford.             The engine of parliaments Might be deferred until I can bring over The Irish regiments: they will serve to assure The issue of the war against the Scots. And, this game won -- which if lost, all is lost-- Gather these chosen leaders of the rebels, And call them, if you will, a parliament. King. Oh, be our feet still tardy to shed blood, Guilty though it may be! I would still spare The stubborn country of my birth, and ward From countenances which I loved in youth The wrathful Church's lacerating hand. (To Laud.) Have you o'erlooked the other articles? [Re-enter Archy. Laud. Hazlerig, Hampden, Pym, young Harry Vane, Cromwell, and other rebels of less note, Intend to sail with the next favouring wind For the Plantations. Archy.            Where they think to found A commonwealth like Gonzalo's in the play, Gynaecocoenic and pantisocratic. King. What's that, sirrah? Archy.            New devil's politics. Hell is the pattern of all commonwealths: Lucifer was the first republican. Will you hear Merlin's prophecy, how three [posts?] 'In one brainless skull, when the whitethorn is full, Shall sail round the world, and come back again: Shall sail round the world in a brainless skull, And come back again when the moon is at full:' When, in spite of the Church, They will hear homilies of whatever length Or form they please. [Cottington?] So please your Majesty to sign this order For their detention. Archy. If your Majesty were tormented night and day by fever, gout, rheumatism, and stone, and asthma, etc., and you found these diseases had secretly entered into a conspiracy to abandon you, should you think it necessary to lay an embargo on the port by which they meant to dispeople your unquiet kingdom of man? King. If fear were made for kings, the Fool mocks wisely; But in this case --(writing.) Here, my lord, take the warrant, And see it duly executed forthwith.-- That imp of malice and mockery shall be punished. [Exeunt all but King, Queen, and Archy. Archy. Ay, I am the physician of whom Plato prophesied, who was to be accused by the confectioner before a jury of children, who found him guilty without waiting for the summing-up, and hanged him without benefit of clergy. Thus Baby Charles, and the Twelfth-night Queen of Hearts, and the overgrown schoolboy Cottington, and that little urchin Laud who would reduce a verdict of 'guilty, death,' by famine, if it were impregnable by compositionall impannelled against poor Archy for presenting them bitter physic the last day of the holidays. Queen. Is the rain over, sirrah? King.               When it rains And the sun shines, 'twill rain again to-morrow: And therefore never smile till you've done crying. Archy. But 'tis all over now: like the April anger of woman, the gentle sky has wept itself serene. Queen. What news abroad? how looks the world this morning? Archy. Gloriously as a grave covered with virgin flowers. There's a rainbow in the sky. Let your Majesty look at it, for 'A rainbow in the morning Is the shepherd's warning;' and the flocks of which you are the pastor are scattered among the mountain-tops, where every drop of water is a flake of snow, and the breath of May pierces like a January blast. King. The sheep have mistaken the wolf for their shepherd, my poor boy; and the shepherd, the wolves for their watchdogs. Queen. But the rainbow was a good sign, Archy: it says that the waters of the deluge are gone, and can return no more. Archy. Ay, the salt-water one: but that of tears and blood must yet come down, and that of fire follow, if there be any truth in lies.-- The rainbow hung over the city with all its shops,...and churches, from north to south, like a bridge of congregated lightning pieced by the masonry of heaven like a balance in which the angel that distributes the coming hour was weighing that heavy one whose poise is now felt in the lightest hearts, before it bows the proudest heads under the meanest feet. Queen. Who taught you this trash, sirrah? Archy. A torn leaf out of an old book trampled in the dirt.-- But for the rainbow. It moved as the sun moved, and...until the top of the Tower...of a cloud through its left-hand tip, and Lambeth Palace look as dark as a rock before the other. Methought I saw a crown figured upon one tip, and a mitre on the other. So, as I had heard treasures were found where the rainbow quenches its points upon the earth, I set off, and at the Tower -- But I shall not tell your Majesty what I found close to the closet-window on which the rainbow had glimmered. King. Speak: I will make my Fool my conscience. Archy. Then conscience is a fool.I saw there a cat caught in a rat-trap. I heard the rats squeak behind the wainscots: it seemed to me that the very mice were consulting on the manner of her death. Queen. Archy is shrewd and bitter. Archy. Like the season, So blow the winds.But at the other end of the rainbow, where the gray rain was tempered along the grass and leaves by a tender interfusion of violet and gold in the meadows beyond Lambeth, what think you that I found instead of a mitre? King. Vane's wits perhaps. Archy. Something as vain. I saw a gross vapour hovering in a stinking ditch over the carcass of a dead ****, some rotten rags, and broken dishesthe wrecks of what once administered to the stuffing-out and the ornament of a worm of worms. His Grace of Canterbury expects to enter the New Jerusalem some Palm Sunday in triumph on the ghost of this ****. Queen. Enough, enough! Go desire Lady Jane She place my lute, together with the music Mari received last week from Italy, In my boudoir, and [Exit Archy. King.           I'll go in. Queen.                  My beloved lord, Have you not noted that the Fool of late Has lost his careless mirth, and that his words Sound like the echoes of our saddest fears? What can it mean? I should be loth to think Some factious slave had tutored him. King.                  Oh, no! He is but Occasion's pupil. Partly 'tis That our minds piece the vacant intervals Of his wild words with their own fashioning, As in the imagery of summer clouds, Or coals of the winter fire, idlers find The perfect shadows of their teeming thoughts: And partly, that the terrors of the time Are sown by wandering Rumour in all spirits; And in the lightest and the least, may best Be seen the current of the coming wind. Queen. Your brain is overwrought with these deep thoughts. Come, I will sing to you; let us go try These airs from Italy; and, as we pass The gallery, we'll decide where that Correggio Shall hangthe Virgin Mother With her child, born the King of heaven and earth, Whose reign is men's salvation. And you shall see A cradled miniature of yourself asleep, Stamped on the heart by never-erring love; Liker than any Vandyke ever made, A pattern to the unborn age of thee, Over whose sweet beauty I have wept for joy A thousand times, and now should weep for sorrow, Did I not think that after we were dead Our fortunes would spring high in him, and that The cares we waste upon our heavy crown Would make it light and glorious as a wreath Of Heaven's beams for his dear innocent brow. King. Dear Henrietta! Scene III. The Star Chamber. Laud, Juxon, Strafford, and others, as Judges. Prynne as a Prisoner, and thenBastwick. Laud. Bring forth the prisoner Bastwick: let the clerk Recite his sentence. Clerk.           'That he pay five thousand Pounds to the king, lose both his ears, be branded With red-hot iron on the cheek and forehead, And be imprisoned within Lancaster Castle During the pleasure of the Court.' Laud.                   Prisoner, If you have aught to say wherefore this sentence Should not be put into effect, now speak. Juxon. If you have aught to plead in mitigation, Speak. Bastwick.    Thus, my lords. If, like the prelates, I Were an invader of the royal power, A public scorner of the word of God, Profane, idolatrous, popish, superstitious, Impious in heart and in tyrannic act, Void of wit, honesty, and temperance; If Satan were my lord, as theirs,our God Pattern of all I should avoid to do; Were I an enemy of my God and King And of good men, as ye are;I should merit Your fearful state and gilt prosperity, Which, when ye wake from the last sleep, shall turn To cowls and robes of everlasting fire. But, as I am, I bid ye grudge me not The only earthly favour ye can yield, Or I think worth acceptance at your hands, Scorn, mutilation, and imprisonment. . . . even as my Master did, Until Heaven's kingdom shall descend on earth, Or earth be like a shadow in the light Of Heaven absorbedsome few tumultuous years Will pass, and leave no wreck of what opposes His will whose will is power. Laud. Officer, take the prisoner from the bar, And be his tongue slit for his insolence. Bastwick. While this hand holds a pen Laud.                 Be his hands-- Juxon.                       Stop! Forbear, my lord! The tongue, which now can speak No terror, would interpret, being dumb, Heaven's thunder to our harm;... And hands, which now write only their own shame, With bleeding stumps might sign our blood away. Laud. Much more such 'mercy' among men would be, Did all the ministers of Heaven's revenge Flinch thus from earthly retribution. I Could suffer what I would inflict. [Exit Bastwick guarded.                   Bring up The Lord Bishop of Lincoln.                 (To Strafford.) Know you not That, in distraining for ten thousand pounds Upon his books and furniture at Lincoln, Were found these scandalous and seditious letters Sent from one Osbaldistone, who is fled? I speak it not as touching this poor person; But of the office which should make it holy, Were it as vile as it was ever spotless. Mark too, my lord, that this expression strikes His Majesty, if I misinterpret not. Enter Bishop Williams guarded. Strafford. 'Twere politic and just that Williams taste The bitter fruit of his connection with The schismatics. But you, my Lord Archbishop, Who owed your first promotion to his favour, Who grew beneath his smile Laud.                Would therefore beg The office of his judge from this High Court, That it shall seem, even as it is, that I, In my assumption of this sacred robe, Have put aside all worldly preference, All sense of all distinction of all persons, All thoughts but of the service of the Church. Bishop of Lincoln! Williams.           Peace, proud hierarch! I know my sentence, and I own it just. Thou wilt repay me less than I deserve, In stretching to the utmost. . . Scene IV. --Hampden, Pym, Cromwell, his Daughter, and young Sir Harry Vane. Hampden. England, farewell! thou, who hast been my cradle, Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave! I held what I inherited in thee As pawn for that inheritance of freedom Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's smile: How can I call thee England, or my country? Does the wind hold? Vane.           The vanes sit steady Upon the Abbey towers. The silver lightnings Of the evening star, spite of the city's smoke, Tell that the north wind reigns in the upper air. Mark too that flock of fleecy-wingd clouds Sailing athwart St. Margaret's. Hampden.                  Hail, fleet herald Of tempest! that rude pilot who shall guide Hearts free as his, to realms as pure as thee, Beyond the shot of tyranny, Beyond the webs of that swoln spider . . . Beyond the curses, calumnies, and [lies?] Of atheist priests! . . . And thou Fair star, whose beam lies on the wide Atlantic, Athwart its zones of tempest and of calm, Bright as the path to a belovd home, Oh, light us to the isles of the evening land! Like floating Edens cradled in the glimmer Of sunset, through the distant mist of years Touched by departing hope, they gleam! lone regions, Where Power's poor dupes and victims yet have never Propitiated the savage fear of kings With purest blood of noblest hearts; whose dew Is yet unstained with tears of those who wake To weep each day the wrongs on which it dawns; Whose sacred silent air owns yet no echo Of formal blasphemies; nor impious rites Wrest man's free worship, from the God who loves, To the poor worm who envies us His love! Receive, thou young....of Paradise, These exiles from the old and sinful world!.... This glorious clime, this firmament, whose lights Dart mitigated influence through their veil Of pale blue atmosphere; whose tears keep green The pavement of this moist all-feeding earth; This vaporous horizon, whose dim round Is bastioned by the circumfluous sea, Repelling invasion from the sacred towers, Presses upon me like a dungeon's grate, A low dark roof, a damp and narrow wall. The boundless universe Becomes a cell too narrow for the soul That owns no master; while the loathliest ward Of this wide prison, England, is a nest Of cradling peace built on the mountain tops, To which the eagle spirits of the free, Which range through heaven and earth, and scorn the storm Of time, and gaze upon the light of truth, Return to brood on thoughts that cannot die And cannot be repelled. Like eaglets floating in the heaven of time, They soar above their quarry, and shall stoop Through palaces and temples thunderproof. SCENE V Archy. I'll go live under the ivy that overgrows the terrace, and count the tears shed on its old [roots?] as the [wind?] plays the song of 'A widow bird sate mourning Upon a wintry bough.' [Sings] Heigho! the lark and the owl! One flies the morning, and one lulls the night:-- Only the nightingale, poor fond soul, Sings like the fool through darkness and light. 'A widow bird sate mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below. 'There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound.' Charles the First was designed in 1818, begun towards the close of 1819, resumed in January, and finally laid aside by June, 1822. It was published in part in the Posthumous Poems, 1824, and printed, in its present form (with the addition of some 530 lines), by Mr. William Michael Rossetti, 1870. 1. Archy, the court fool of Charles I, is both an unacknowledged prophet and, as King Charles claims, a weaver of "a world of mirth out of the wreck of ours."    ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Charles The First ,

880:The Holy Grail From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, Whom Arthur and his knighthood called The Pure, Had passed into the silent life of prayer, Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl The helmet in an abbey far away From Camelot, there, and not long after, died. And one, a fellow-monk among the rest, Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the rest, And honoured him, and wrought into his heart A way by love that wakened love within, To answer that which came: and as they sat Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half The cloisters, on a gustful April morn That puffed the swaying branches into smoke Above them, ere the summer when he died The monk Ambrosius questioned Percivale: `O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke, Spring after spring, for half a hundred years: For never have I known the world without, Nor ever strayed beyond the pale: but thee, When first thou camest--such a courtesy Spake through the limbs and in the voice--I knew For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall; For good ye are and bad, and like to coins, Some true, some light, but every one of you Stamped with the image of the King; and now Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round, My brother? was it earthly passion crost?' `Nay,' said the knight; `for no such passion mine. But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries, And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out Among us in the jousts, while women watch Who wins, who falls; and waste the spiritual strength Within us, better offered up to Heaven.' 601 To whom the monk: `The Holy Grail!--I trust We are green in Heaven's eyes; but here too much We moulder--as to things without I mean-Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours, Told us of this in our refectory, But spake with such a sadness and so low We heard not half of what he said. What is it? The phantom of a cup that comes and goes?' `Nay, monk! what phantom?' answered Percivale. `The cup, the cup itself, from which our Lord Drank at the last sad supper with his own. This, from the blessd land of Aromat-After the day of darkness, when the dead Went wandering o'er Moriah--the good saint Arimathan Joseph, journeying brought To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord. And there awhile it bode; and if a man Could touch or see it, he was healed at once, By faith, of all his ills. But then the times Grew to such evil that the holy cup Was caught away to Heaven, and disappeared.' To whom the monk: `From our old books I know That Joseph came of old to Glastonbury, And there the heathen Prince, Arviragus, Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to build; And there he built with wattles from the marsh A little lonely church in days of yore, For so they say, these books of ours, but seem Mute of this miracle, far as I have read. But who first saw the holy thing today?' `A woman,' answered Percivale, `a nun, And one no further off in blood from me Than sister; and if ever holy maid With knees of adoration wore the stone, A holy maid; though never maiden glowed, But that was in her earlier maidenhood, With such a fervent flame of human love, 602 Which being rudely blunted, glanced and shot Only to holy things; to prayer and praise She gave herself, to fast and alms. And yet, Nun as she was, the scandal of the Court, Sin against Arthur and the Table Round, And the strange sound of an adulterous race, Across the iron grating of her cell Beat, and she prayed and fasted all the more. `And he to whom she told her sins, or what Her all but utter whiteness held for sin, A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, A legend handed down through five or six, And each of these a hundred winters old, From our Lord's time. And when King Arthur made His Table Round, and all men's hearts became Clean for a season, surely he had thought That now the Holy Grail would come again; But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it would come, And heal the world of all their wickedness! "O Father!" asked the maiden, "might it come To me by prayer and fasting?" "Nay," said he, "I know not, for thy heart is pure as snow." And so she prayed and fasted, till the sun Shone, and the wind blew, through her, and I thought She might have risen and floated when I saw her. `For on a day she sent to speak with me. And when she came to speak, behold her eyes Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful, Beyond all knowing of them, wonderful, Beautiful in the light of holiness. And "O my brother Percivale," she said, "Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail: For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound As of a silver horn from o'er the hills Blown, and I thought, `It is not Arthur's use To hunt by moonlight;' and the slender sound As from a distance beyond distance grew Coming upon me--O never harp nor horn, Nor aught we blow with breath, or touch with hand, 603 Was like that music as it came; and then Streamed through my cell a cold and silver beam, And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail, Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive, Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed With rosy colours leaping on the wall; And then the music faded, and the Grail Past, and the beam decayed, and from the walls The rosy quiverings died into the night. So now the Holy Thing is here again Among us, brother, fast thou too and pray, And tell thy brother knights to fast and pray, That so perchance the vision may be seen By thee and those, and all the world be healed." `Then leaving the pale nun, I spake of this To all men; and myself fasted and prayed Always, and many among us many a week Fasted and prayed even to the uttermost, Expectant of the wonder that would be. `And one there was among us, ever moved Among us in white armour, Galahad. "God make thee good as thou art beautiful," Said Arthur, when he dubbed him knight; and none, In so young youth, was ever made a knight Till Galahad; and this Galahad, when he heard My sister's vision, filled me with amaze; His eyes became so like her own, they seemed Hers, and himself her brother more than I. `Sister or brother none had he; but some Called him a son of Lancelot, and some said Begotten by enchantment--chatterers they, Like birds of passage piping up and down, That gape for flies--we know not whence they come; For when was Lancelot wanderingly lewd? `But she, the wan sweet maiden, shore away Clean from her forehead all that wealth of hair Which made a silken mat-work for her feet; And out of this she plaited broad and long 604 A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver thread And crimson in the belt a strange device, A crimson grail within a silver beam; And saw the bright boy-knight, and bound it on him, Saying, "My knight, my love, my knight of heaven, O thou, my love, whose love is one with mine, I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind my belt. Go forth, for thou shalt see what I have seen, And break through all, till one will crown thee king Far in the spiritual city:" and as she spake She sent the deathless passion in her eyes Through him, and made him hers, and laid her mind On him, and he believed in her belief. `Then came a year of miracle: O brother, In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, Fashioned by Merlin ere he past away, And carven with strange figures; and in and out The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll Of letters in a tongue no man could read. And Merlin called it "The Siege perilous," Perilous for good and ill; "for there," he said, "No man could sit but he should lose himself:" And once by misadvertence Merlin sat In his own chair, and so was lost; but he, Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's doom, Cried, "If I lose myself, I save myself!" `Then on a summer night it came to pass, While the great banquet lay along the hall, That Galahad would sit down in Merlin's chair. `And all at once, as there we sat, we heard A cracking and a riving of the roofs, And rending, and a blast, and overhead Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. And in the blast there smote along the hall A beam of light seven times more clear than day: And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail All over covered with a luminous cloud. And none might see who bare it, and it past. But every knight beheld his fellow's face 605 As in a glory, and all the knights arose, And staring each at other like dumb men Stood, till I found a voice and sware a vow. `I sware a vow before them all, that I, Because I had not seen the Grail, would ride A twelvemonth and a day in quest of it, Until I found and saw it, as the nun My sister saw it; and Galahad sware the vow, And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's cousin, sware, And Lancelot sware, and many among the knights, And Gawain sware, and louder than the rest.' Then spake the monk Ambrosius, asking him, `What said the King? Did Arthur take the vow?' `Nay, for my lord,' said Percivale, `the King, Was not in hall: for early that same day, Scaped through a cavern from a bandit hold, An outraged maiden sprang into the hall Crying on help: for all her shining hair Was smeared with earth, and either milky arm Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and all she wore Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is torn In tempest: so the King arose and went To smoke the scandalous hive of those wild bees That made such honey in his realm. Howbeit Some little of this marvel he too saw, Returning o'er the plain that then began To darken under Camelot; whence the King Looked up, calling aloud, "Lo, there! the roofs Of our great hall are rolled in thunder-smoke! Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by the bolt." For dear to Arthur was that hall of ours, As having there so oft with all his knights Feasted, and as the stateliest under heaven. `O brother, had you known our mighty hall, Which Merlin built for Arthur long ago! For all the sacred mount of Camelot, And all the dim rich city, roof by roof, Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 606 By grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing brook, Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin built. And four great zones of sculpture, set betwixt With many a mystic symbol, gird the hall: And in the lowest beasts are slaying men, And in the second men are slaying beasts, And on the third are warriors, perfect men, And on the fourth are men with growing wings, And over all one statue in the mould Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a crown, And peaked wings pointed to the Northern Star. And eastward fronts the statue, and the crown And both the wings are made of gold, and flame At sunrise till the people in far fields, Wasted so often by the heathen hordes, Behold it, crying, "We have still a King." `And, brother, had you known our hall within, Broader and higher than any in all the lands! Where twelve great windows blazon Arthur's wars, And all the light that falls upon the board Streams through the twelve great battles of our King. Nay, one there is, and at the eastern end, Wealthy with wandering lines of mount and mere, Where Arthur finds the brand Excalibur. And also one to the west, and counter to it, And blank: and who shall blazon it? when and how?-O there, perchance, when all our wars are done, The brand Excalibur will be cast away. `So to this hall full quickly rode the King, In horror lest the work by Merlin wrought, Dreamlike, should on the sudden vanish, wrapt In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. And in he rode, and up I glanced, and saw The golden dragon sparkling over all: And many of those who burnt the hold, their arms Hacked, and their foreheads grimed with smoke, and seared, Followed, and in among bright faces, ours, Full of the vision, prest: and then the King Spake to me, being nearest, "Percivale," (Because the hall was all in tumult--some 607 Vowing, and some protesting), "what is this?" `O brother, when I told him what had chanced, My sister's vision, and the rest, his face Darkened, as I have seen it more than once, When some brave deed seemed to be done in vain, Darken; and "Woe is me, my knights," he cried, "Had I been here, ye had not sworn the vow." Bold was mine answer, "Had thyself been here, My King, thou wouldst have sworn." "Yea, yea," said he, "Art thou so bold and hast not seen the Grail?" `"Nay, lord, I heard the sound, I saw the light, But since I did not see the Holy Thing, I sware a vow to follow it till I saw." `Then when he asked us, knight by knight, if any Had seen it, all their answers were as one: "Nay, lord, and therefore have we sworn our vows." `"Lo now," said Arthur, "have ye seen a cloud? What go ye into the wilderness to see?" `Then Galahad on the sudden, and in a voice Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, called, "But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail, I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry-`O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me.'" `"Ah, Galahad, Galahad," said the King, "for such As thou art is the vision, not for these. Thy holy nun and thou have seen a sign-Holier is none, my Percivale, than she-A sign to maim this Order which I made. But ye, that follow but the leader's bell" (Brother, the King was hard upon his knights) "Taliessin is our fullest throat of song, And one hath sung and all the dumb will sing. Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath overborne Five knights at once, and every younger knight, Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, Till overborne by one, he learns--and ye, 608 What are ye? Galahads?--no, nor Percivales" (For thus it pleased the King to range me close After Sir Galahad); "nay," said he, "but men With strength and will to right the wronged, of power To lay the sudden heads of violence flat, Knights that in twelve great battles splashed and dyed The strong White Horse in his own heathen blood-But one hath seen, and all the blind will see. Go, since your vows are sacred, being made: Yet--for ye know the cries of all my realm Pass through this hall--how often, O my knights, Your places being vacant at my side, This chance of noble deeds will come and go Unchallenged, while ye follow wandering fires Lost in the quagmire! Many of you, yea most, Return no more: ye think I show myself Too dark a prophet: come now, let us meet The morrow morn once more in one full field Of gracious pastime, that once more the King, Before ye leave him for this Quest, may count The yet-unbroken strength of all his knights, Rejoicing in that Order which he made." `So when the sun broke next from under ground, All the great table of our Arthur closed And clashed in such a tourney and so full, So many lances broken--never yet Had Camelot seen the like, since Arthur came; And I myself and Galahad, for a strength Was in us from this vision, overthrew So many knights that all the people cried, And almost burst the barriers in their heat, Shouting, "Sir Galahad and Sir Percivale!" `But when the next day brake from under ground-O brother, had you known our Camelot, Built by old kings, age after age, so old The King himself had fears that it would fall, So strange, and rich, and dim; for where the roofs Tottered toward each other in the sky, Met foreheads all along the street of those Who watched us pass; and lower, and where the long 609 Rich galleries, lady-laden, weighed the necks Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls, Thicker than drops from thunder, showers of flowers Fell as we past; and men and boys astride On wyvern, lion, dragon, griffin, swan, At all the corners, named us each by name, Calling, "God speed!" but in the ways below The knights and ladies wept, and rich and poor Wept, and the King himself could hardly speak For grief, and all in middle street the Queen, Who rode by Lancelot, wailed and shrieked aloud, "This madness has come on us for our sins." So to the Gate of the three Queens we came, Where Arthur's wars are rendered mystically, And thence departed every one his way. `And I was lifted up in heart, and thought Of all my late-shown prowess in the lists, How my strong lance had beaten down the knights, So many and famous names; and never yet Had heaven appeared so blue, nor earth so green, For all my blood danced in me, and I knew That I should light upon the Holy Grail. `Thereafter, the dark warning of our King, That most of us would follow wandering fires, Came like a driving gloom across my mind. Then every evil word I had spoken once, And every evil thought I had thought of old, And every evil deed I ever did, Awoke and cried, "This Quest is not for thee." And lifting up mine eyes, I found myself Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns, And I was thirsty even unto death; And I, too, cried, "This Quest is not for thee." `And on I rode, and when I thought my thirst Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a brook, With one sharp rapid, where the crisping white Played ever back upon the sloping wave, And took both ear and eye; and o'er the brook Were apple-trees, and apples by the brook 610 Fallen, and on the lawns. "I will rest here," I said, "I am not worthy of the Quest;" But even while I drank the brook, and ate The goodly apples, all these things at once Fell into dust, and I was left alone, And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns. `And then behold a woman at a door Spinning; and fair the house whereby she sat, And kind the woman's eyes and innocent, And all her bearing gracious; and she rose Opening her arms to meet me, as who should say, "Rest here;" but when I touched her, lo! she, too, Fell into dust and nothing, and the house Became no better than a broken shed, And in it a dead babe; and also this Fell into dust, and I was left alone. `And on I rode, and greater was my thirst. Then flashed a yellow gleam across the world, And where it smote the plowshare in the field, The plowman left his plowing, and fell down Before it; where it glittered on her pail, The milkmaid left her milking, and fell down Before it, and I knew not why, but thought "The sun is rising," though the sun had risen. Then was I ware of one that on me moved In golden armour with a crown of gold About a casque all jewels; and his horse In golden armour jewelled everywhere: And on the splendour came, flashing me blind; And seemed to me the Lord of all the world, Being so huge. But when I thought he meant To crush me, moving on me, lo! he, too, Opened his arms to embrace me as he came, And up I went and touched him, and he, too, Fell into dust, and I was left alone And wearying in a land of sand and thorns. `And I rode on and found a mighty hill, And on the top, a city walled: the spires Pricked with incredible pinnacles into heaven. 611 And by the gateway stirred a crowd; and these Cried to me climbing, "Welcome, Percivale! Thou mightiest and thou purest among men!" And glad was I and clomb, but found at top No man, nor any voice. And thence I past Far through a ruinous city, and I saw That man had once dwelt there; but there I found Only one man of an exceeding age. "Where is that goodly company," said I, "That so cried out upon me?" and he had Scarce any voice to answer, and yet gasped, "Whence and what art thou?" and even as he spoke Fell into dust, and disappeared, and I Was left alone once more, and cried in grief, "Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself And touch it, it will crumble into dust." `And thence I dropt into a lowly vale, Low as the hill was high, and where the vale Was lowest, found a chapel, and thereby A holy hermit in a hermitage, To whom I told my phantoms, and he said: `"O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; For when the Lord of all things made Himself Naked of glory for His mortal change, `Take thou my robe,' she said, `for all is thine,' And all her form shone forth with sudden light So that the angels were amazed, and she Followed Him down, and like a flying star Led on the gray-haired wisdom of the east; But her thou hast not known: for what is this Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins? Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself As Galahad." When the hermit made an end, In silver armour suddenly Galahad shone Before us, and against the chapel door Laid lance, and entered, and we knelt in prayer. And there the hermit slaked my burning thirst, And at the sacring of the mass I saw The holy elements alone; but he, 612 "Saw ye no more? I, Galahad, saw the Grail, The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine: I saw the fiery face as of a child That smote itself into the bread, and went; And hither am I come; and never yet Hath what thy sister taught me first to see, This Holy Thing, failed from my side, nor come Covered, but moving with me night and day, Fainter by day, but always in the night Blood-red, and sliding down the blackened marsh Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below Blood-red. And in the strength of this I rode, Shattering all evil customs everywhere, And past through Pagan realms, and made them mine, And clashed with Pagan hordes, and bore them down, And broke through all, and in the strength of this Come victor. But my time is hard at hand, And hence I go; and one will crown me king Far in the spiritual city; and come thou, too, For thou shalt see the vision when I go." `While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling on mine, Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew One with him, to believe as he believed. Then, when the day began to wane, we went. `There rose a hill that none but man could climb, Scarred with a hundred wintry water-courses-Storm at the top, and when we gained it, storm Round us and death; for every moment glanced His silver arms and gloomed: so quick and thick The lightnings here and there to left and right Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead, Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death, Sprang into fire: and at the base we found On either hand, as far as eye could see, A great black swamp and of an evil smell, Part black, part whitened with the bones of men, Not to be crost, save that some ancient king Had built a way, where, linked with many a bridge, A thousand piers ran into the great Sea. 613 And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge, And every bridge as quickly as he crost Sprang into fire and vanished, though I yearned To follow; and thrice above him all the heavens Opened and blazed with thunder such as seemed Shoutings of all the sons of God: and first At once I saw him far on the great Sea, In silver-shining armour starry-clear; And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat, If boat it were--I saw not whence it came. And when the heavens opened and blazed again Roaring, I saw him like a silver star-And had he set the sail, or had the boat Become a living creature clad with wings? And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung Redder than any rose, a joy to me, For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn. Then in a moment when they blazed again Opening, I saw the least of little stars Down on the waste, and straight beyond the star I saw the spiritual city and all her spires And gateways in a glory like one pearl-No larger, though the goal of all the saints-Strike from the sea; and from the star there shot A rose-red sparkle to the city, and there Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy Grail, Which never eyes on earth again shall see. Then fell the floods of heaven drowning the deep. And how my feet recrost the deathful ridge No memory in me lives; but that I touched The chapel-doors at dawn I know; and thence Taking my war-horse from the holy man, Glad that no phantom vext me more, returned To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's wars.' `O brother,' asked Ambrosius,--`for in sooth These ancient books--and they would win thee--teem, Only I find not there this Holy Grail, With miracles and marvels like to these, Not all unlike; which oftentime I read, 614 Who read but on my breviary with ease, Till my head swims; and then go forth and pass Down to the little thorpe that lies so close, And almost plastered like a martin's nest To these old walls--and mingle with our folk; And knowing every honest face of theirs As well as ever shepherd knew his sheep, And every homely secret in their hearts, Delight myself with gossip and old wives, And ills and aches, and teethings, lyings-in, And mirthful sayings, children of the place, That have no meaning half a league away: Or lulling random squabbles when they rise, Chafferings and chatterings at the market-cross, Rejoice, small man, in this small world of mine, Yea, even in their hens and in their eggs-O brother, saving this Sir Galahad, Came ye on none but phantoms in your quest, No man, no woman?' Then Sir Percivale: `All men, to one so bound by such a vow, And women were as phantoms. O, my brother, Why wilt thou shame me to confess to thee How far I faltered from my quest and vow? For after I had lain so many nights A bedmate of the snail and eft and snake, In grass and burdock, I was changed to wan And meagre, and the vision had not come; And then I chanced upon a goodly town With one great dwelling in the middle of it; Thither I made, and there was I disarmed By maidens each as fair as any flower: But when they led me into hall, behold, The Princess of that castle was the one, Brother, and that one only, who had ever Made my heart leap; for when I moved of old A slender page about her father's hall, And she a slender maiden, all my heart Went after her with longing: yet we twain Had never kissed a kiss, or vowed a vow. And now I came upon her once again, 615 And one had wedded her, and he was dead, And all his land and wealth and state were hers. And while I tarried, every day she set A banquet richer than the day before By me; for all her longing and her will Was toward me as of old; till one fair morn, I walking to and fro beside a stream That flashed across her orchard underneath Her castle-walls, she stole upon my walk, And calling me the greatest of all knights, Embraced me, and so kissed me the first time, And gave herself and all her wealth to me. Then I remembered Arthur's warning word, That most of us would follow wandering fires, And the Quest faded in my heart. Anon, The heads of all her people drew to me, With supplication both of knees and tongue: "We have heard of thee: thou art our greatest knight, Our Lady says it, and we well believe: Wed thou our Lady, and rule over us, And thou shalt be as Arthur in our land." O me, my brother! but one night my vow Burnt me within, so that I rose and fled, But wailed and wept, and hated mine own self, And even the Holy Quest, and all but her; Then after I was joined with Galahad Cared not for her, nor anything upon earth.' Then said the monk, `Poor men, when yule is cold, Must be content to sit by little fires. And this am I, so that ye care for me Ever so little; yea, and blest be Heaven That brought thee here to this poor house of ours Where all the brethren are so hard, to warm My cold heart with a friend: but O the pity To find thine own first love once more--to hold, Hold her a wealthy bride within thine arms, Or all but hold, and then--cast her aside, Foregoing all her sweetness, like a weed. For we that want the warmth of double life, We that are plagued with dreams of something sweet Beyond all sweetness in a life so rich,-- 616 Ah, blessd Lord, I speak too earthlywise, Seeing I never strayed beyond the cell, But live like an old badger in his earth, With earth about him everywhere, despite All fast and penance. Saw ye none beside, None of your knights?' `Yea so,' said Percivale: `One night my pathway swerving east, I saw The pelican on the casque of our Sir Bors All in the middle of the rising moon: And toward him spurred, and hailed him, and he me, And each made joy of either; then he asked, "Where is he? hast thou seen him--Lancelot?--Once," Said good Sir Bors, "he dashed across me--mad, And maddening what he rode: and when I cried, `Ridest thou then so hotly on a quest So holy,' Lancelot shouted, `Stay me not! I have been the sluggard, and I ride apace, For now there is a lion in the way.' So vanished." `Then Sir Bors had ridden on Softly, and sorrowing for our Lancelot, Because his former madness, once the talk And scandal of our table, had returned; For Lancelot's kith and kin so worship him That ill to him is ill to them; to Bors Beyond the rest: he well had been content Not to have seen, so Lancelot might have seen, The Holy Cup of healing; and, indeed, Being so clouded with his grief and love, Small heart was his after the Holy Quest: If God would send the vision, well: if not, The Quest and he were in the hands of Heaven. `And then, with small adventure met, Sir Bors Rode to the lonest tract of all the realm, And found a people there among their crags, Our race and blood, a remnant that were left Paynim amid their circles, and the stones They pitch up straight to heaven: and their wise men 617 Were strong in that old magic which can trace The wandering of the stars, and scoffed at him And this high Quest as at a simple thing: Told him he followed--almost Arthur's words-A mocking fire: "what other fire than he, Whereby the blood beats, and the blossom blows, And the sea rolls, and all the world is warmed?" And when his answer chafed them, the rough crowd, Hearing he had a difference with their priests, Seized him, and bound and plunged him into a cell Of great piled stones; and lying bounden there In darkness through innumerable hours He heard the hollow-ringing heavens sweep Over him till by miracle--what else?-Heavy as it was, a great stone slipt and fell, Such as no wind could move: and through the gap Glimmered the streaming scud: then came a night Still as the day was loud; and through the gap The seven clear stars of Arthur's Table Round-For, brother, so one night, because they roll Through such a round in heaven, we named the stars, Rejoicing in ourselves and in our King-And these, like bright eyes of familiar friends, In on him shone: "And then to me, to me," Said good Sir Bors, "beyond all hopes of mine, Who scarce had prayed or asked it for myself-Across the seven clear stars--O grace to me-In colour like the fingers of a hand Before a burning taper, the sweet Grail Glided and past, and close upon it pealed A sharp quick thunder." Afterwards, a maid, Who kept our holy faith among her kin In secret, entering, loosed and let him go.' To whom the monk: `And I remember now That pelican on the casque: Sir Bors it was Who spake so low and sadly at our board; And mighty reverent at our grace was he: A square-set man and honest; and his eyes, An out-door sign of all the warmth within, Smiled with his lips--a smile beneath a cloud, But heaven had meant it for a sunny one: 618 Ay, ay, Sir Bors, who else? But when ye reached The city, found ye all your knights returned, Or was there sooth in Arthur's prophecy, Tell me, and what said each, and what the King?' Then answered Percivale: `And that can I, Brother, and truly; since the living words Of so great men as Lancelot and our King Pass not from door to door and out again, But sit within the house. O, when we reached The city, our horses stumbling as they trode On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, Cracked basilisks, and splintered cockatrices, And shattered talbots, which had left the stones Raw, that they fell from, brought us to the hall. `And there sat Arthur on the das-throne, And those that had gone out upon the Quest, Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of them, And those that had not, stood before the King, Who, when he saw me, rose, and bad me hail, Saying, "A welfare in thine eye reproves Our fear of some disastrous chance for thee On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford. So fierce a gale made havoc here of late Among the strange devices of our kings; Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of ours, And from the statue Merlin moulded for us Half-wrenched a golden wing; but now--the Quest, This vision--hast thou seen the Holy Cup, That Joseph brought of old to Glastonbury?" `So when I told him all thyself hast heard, Ambrosius, and my fresh but fixt resolve To pass away into the quiet life, He answered not, but, sharply turning, asked Of Gawain, "Gawain, was this Quest for thee?" `"Nay, lord," said Gawain, "not for such as I. Therefore I communed with a saintly man, Who made me sure the Quest was not for me; For I was much awearied of the Quest: 619 But found a silk pavilion in a field, And merry maidens in it; and then this gale Tore my pavilion from the tenting-pin, And blew my merry maidens all about With all discomfort; yea, and but for this, My twelvemonth and a day were pleasant to me." `He ceased; and Arthur turned to whom at first He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, pushed Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught his hand, Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, stood, Until the King espied him, saying to him, "Hail, Bors! if ever loyal man and true Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail;" and Bors, "Ask me not, for I may not speak of it: I saw it;" and the tears were in his eyes. `Then there remained but Lancelot, for the rest Spake but of sundry perils in the storm; Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy Writ, Our Arthur kept his best until the last; "Thou, too, my Lancelot," asked the king, "my friend, Our mightiest, hath this Quest availed for thee?" `"Our mightiest!" answered Lancelot, with a groan; "O King!"--and when he paused, methought I spied A dying fire of madness in his eyes-"O King, my friend, if friend of thine I be, Happier are those that welter in their sin, Swine in the mud, that cannot see for slime, Slime of the ditch: but in me lived a sin So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure, Noble, and knightly in me twined and clung Round that one sin, until the wholesome flower And poisonous grew together, each as each, Not to be plucked asunder; and when thy knights Sware, I sware with them only in the hope That could I touch or see the Holy Grail They might be plucked asunder. Then I spake To one most holy saint, who wept and said, That save they could be plucked asunder, all My quest were but in vain; to whom I vowed 620 That I would work according as he willed. And forth I went, and while I yearned and strove To tear the twain asunder in my heart, My madness came upon me as of old, And whipt me into waste fields far away; There was I beaten down by little men, Mean knights, to whom the moving of my sword And shadow of my spear had been enow To scare them from me once; and then I came All in my folly to the naked shore, Wide flats, where nothing but coarse grasses grew; But such a blast, my King, began to blow, So loud a blast along the shore and sea, Ye could not hear the waters for the blast, Though heapt in mounds and ridges all the sea Drove like a cataract, and all the sand Swept like a river, and the clouded heavens Were shaken with the motion and the sound. And blackening in the sea-foam swayed a boat, Half-swallowed in it, anchored with a chain; And in my madness to myself I said, `I will embark and I will lose myself, And in the great sea wash away my sin.' I burst the chain, I sprang into the boat. Seven days I drove along the dreary deep, And with me drove the moon and all the stars; And the wind fell, and on the seventh night I heard the shingle grinding in the surge, And felt the boat shock earth, and looking up, Behold, the enchanted towers of Carbonek, A castle like a rock upon a rock, With chasm-like portals open to the sea, And steps that met the breaker! there was none Stood near it but a lion on each side That kept the entry, and the moon was full. Then from the boat I leapt, and up the stairs. There drew my sword. With sudden-flaring manes Those two great beasts rose upright like a man, Each gript a shoulder, and I stood between; And, when I would have smitten them, heard a voice, `Doubt not, go forward; if thou doubt, the beasts Will tear thee piecemeal.' Then with violence 621 The sword was dashed from out my hand, and fell. And up into the sounding hall I past; But nothing in the sounding hall I saw, No bench nor table, painting on the wall Or shield of knight; only the rounded moon Through the tall oriel on the rolling sea. But always in the quiet house I heard, Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark, A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower To the eastward: up I climbed a thousand steps With pain: as in a dream I seemed to climb For ever: at the last I reached a door, A light was in the crannies, and I heard, `Glory and joy and honour to our Lord And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail.' Then in my madness I essayed the door; It gave; and through a stormy glare, a heat As from a seventimes-heated furnace, I, Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was, With such a fierceness that I swooned away-O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail, All palled in crimson samite, and around Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes. And but for all my madness and my sin, And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw That which I saw; but what I saw was veiled And covered; and this Quest was not for me." `So speaking, and here ceasing, Lancelot left The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain--nay, Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words,-A reckless and irreverent knight was he, Now boldened by the silence of his King,-Well, I will tell thee: "O King, my liege," he said, "Hath Gawain failed in any quest of thine? When have I stinted stroke in foughten field? But as for thine, my good friend Percivale, Thy holy nun and thou have driven men mad, Yea, made our mightiest madder than our least. But by mine eyes and by mine ears I swear, I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, 622 To holy virgins in their ecstasies, Henceforward." `"Deafer," said the blameless King, "Gawain, and blinder unto holy things Hope not to make thyself by idle vows, Being too blind to have desire to see. But if indeed there came a sign from heaven, Blessd are Bors, Lancelot and Percivale, For these have seen according to their sight. For every fiery prophet in old times, And all the sacred madness of the bard, When God made music through them, could but speak His music by the framework and the chord; And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. `"Nay--but thou errest, Lancelot: never yet Could all of true and noble in knight and man Twine round one sin, whatever it might be, With such a closeness, but apart there grew, Save that he were the swine thou spakest of, Some root of knighthood and pure nobleness; Whereto see thou, that it may bear its flower. `"And spake I not too truly, O my knights? Was I too dark a prophet when I said To those who went upon the Holy Quest, That most of them would follow wandering fires, Lost in the quagmire?--lost to me and gone, And left me gazing at a barren board, And a lean Order--scarce returned a tithe-And out of those to whom the vision came My greatest hardly will believe he saw; Another hath beheld it afar off, And leaving human wrongs to right themselves, Cares but to pass into the silent life. And one hath had the vision face to face, And now his chair desires him here in vain, However they may crown him otherwhere. `"And some among you held, that if the King Had seen the sight he would have sworn the vow: 623 Not easily, seeing that the King must guard That which he rules, and is but as the hind To whom a space of land is given to plow. Who may not wander from the allotted field Before his work be done; but, being done, Let visions of the night or of the day Come, as they will; and many a time they come, Until this earth he walks on seems not earth, This light that strikes his eyeball is not light, This air that smites his forehead is not air But vision--yea, his very hand and foot-In moments when he feels he cannot die, And knows himself no vision to himself, Nor the high God a vision, nor that One Who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen." `So spake the King: I knew not all he meant.' ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

881:A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast, They alway must be with us, or we die. Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I Will trace the story of Endymion. The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own vallies: so I will begin Now while I cannot hear the city's din; Now while the early budders are just new, And run in mazes of the youngest hue About old forests; while the willow trails Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer My little boat, for many quiet hours, With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. Many and many a verse I hope to write, Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, I must be near the middle of my story. O may no wintry season, bare and hoary, See it half finished: but let Autumn bold, With universal tinge of sober gold, Be all about me when I make an end. And now at once, adventuresome, I send My herald thought into a wilderness: There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress My uncertain path with green, that I may speed Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed So plenteously all weed-hidden roots Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits. And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep, Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens, Never again saw he the happy pens Whither his brethren, bleating with content, Over the hills at every nightfall went. Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever, That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever From the white flock, but pass'd unworried By angry wolf, or pard with prying head, Until it came to some unfooted plains Where fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gains Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly To a wide lawn, whence one could only see Stems thronging all around between the swell Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell The freshness of the space of heaven above, Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a dove Would often beat its wings, and often too A little cloud would move across the blue. Full in the middle of this pleasantness There stood a marble altar, with a tress Of flowers budded newly; and the dew Had taken fairy phantasies to strew Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, And so the dawned light in pomp receive. For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre Of brightness so unsullied, that therein A melancholy spirit well might win Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun; The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass; Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold, To feel this sun-rise and its glories old. Now while the silent workings of the dawn Were busiest, into that self-same lawn All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped A troop of little children garlanded; Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry Earnestly round as wishing to espy Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited For many moments, ere their ears were sated With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then Fill'd out its voice, and died away again. Within a little space again it gave Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking Through copse-clad vallies,ere their death, oer-taking The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. And now, as deep into the wood as we Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light Fair faces and a rush of garments white, Plainer and plainer shewing, till at last Into the widest alley they all past, Making directly for the woodland altar. O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulter In telling of this goodly company, Of their old piety, and of their glee: But let a portion of ethereal dew Fall on my head, and presently unmew My soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring, To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing. Leading the way, young damsels danced along, Bearing the burden of a shepherd song; Each having a white wicker over brimm'd With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd, A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks As may be read of in Arcadian books; Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, When the great deity, for earth too ripe, Let his divinity o'er-flowing die In music, through the vales of Thessaly: Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground, And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, Now coming from beneath the forest trees, A venerable priest full soberly, Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept, And after him his sacred vestments swept. From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white, Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light; And in his left he held a basket full Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull: Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd, Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car, Easily rolling so as scarce to mar The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown: Who stood therein did seem of great renown Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown; And, for those simple times, his garments were A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare, Was hung a silver bugle, and between His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd, To common lookers on, like one who dream'd Of idleness in groves Elysian: But there were some who feelingly could scan A lurking trouble in his nether lip, And see that oftentimes the reins would slip Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh, And think of yellow leaves, of owlets cry, Of logs piled solemnly.Ah, well-a-day, Why should our young Endymion pine away! Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd, Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'd To sudden veneration: women meek Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheek Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear. Endymion too, without a forest peer, Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face, Among his brothers of the mountain chase. In midst of all, the venerable priest Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least, And, after lifting up his aged hands, Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands! Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks: Whether descended from beneath the rocks That overtop your mountains; whether come From vallies where the pipe is never dumb; Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge, Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn: Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air; And all ye gentle girls who foster up Udderless lambs, and in a little cup Will put choice honey for a favoured youth: Yea, every one attend! for in good truth Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had Great bounty from Endymion our lord. The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd His early song against yon breezy sky, That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity." Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire; Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god. Now while the earth was drinking it, and while Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile, And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright 'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang: "O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness; Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken; And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken The dreary melody of bedded reeds In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth; Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth Thou wast to lose fair Syrinxdo thou now, By thy love's milky brow! By all the trembling mazes that she ran, Hear us, great Pan! "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, What time thou wanderest at eventide Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees Their golden honeycombs; our village leas Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn; The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year All its completionsbe quickly near, By every wind that nods the mountain pine, O forester divine! "Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices flit To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewildered shepherds to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And gather up all fancifullest shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, The while they pelt each other on the crown With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown By all the echoes that about thee ring, Hear us, O satyr king! "O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn, When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms, To keep off mildews, and all weather harms: Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, That come a swooning over hollow grounds, And wither drearily on barren moors: Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledgesee, Great son of Dryope, The many that are come to pay their vows With leaves about their brows! Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven, That spreading in this dull and clodded earth Gives it a touch ethereala new birth: Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea; An element filling the space between; An unknownbut no more: we humbly screen With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And giving out a shout most heaven rending, Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean, Upon thy Mount Lycean! Even while they brought the burden to a close, A shout from the whole multitude arose, That lingered in the air like dying rolls Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine. Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine, Young companies nimbly began dancing To the swift treble pipe, and humming string. Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly To tunes forgottenout of memory: Fair creatures! whose young children's children bred Thermopyl its heroesnot yet dead, But in old marbles ever beautiful. High genitors, unconscious did they cull Time's sweet first-fruitsthey danc'd to weariness, And then in quiet circles did they press The hillock turf, and caught the latter end Of some strange history, potent to send A young mind from its bodily tenement. Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent On either side; pitying the sad death Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath Of Zephyr slew him,Zephyr penitent, Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament, Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain. The archers too, upon a wider plain, Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft, And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top, Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee And frantic gape of lonely Niobe, Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip, And very, very deadliness did nip Her motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad mood By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd, Uplifting his strong bow into the air, Many might after brighter visions stare: After the Argonauts, in blind amaze Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways, Until, from the horizon's vaulted side, There shot a golden splendour far and wide, Spangling those million poutings of the brine With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shine From the exaltation of Apollo's bow; A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. Who thus were ripe for high contemplating, Might turn their steps towards the sober ring Where sat Endymion and the aged priest 'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'd The silvery setting of their mortal star. There they discours'd upon the fragile bar That keeps us from our homes ethereal; And what our duties there: to nightly call Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather; To summon all the downiest clouds together For the sun's purple couch; to emulate In ministring the potent rule of fate With speed of fire-tailed exhalations; To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons Sweet poesy by moonlight: besides these, A world of other unguess'd offices. Anon they wander'd, by divine converse, Into Elysium; vieing to rehearse Each one his own anticipated bliss. One felt heart-certain that he could not miss His quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs, Where every zephyr-sigh pouts and endows Her lips with music for the welcoming. Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring, To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails, Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales: Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind, And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind; And, ever after, through those regions be His messenger, his little Mercury. Some were athirst in soul to see again Their fellow huntsmen o'er the wide champaign In times long past; to sit with them, and talk Of all the chances in their earthly walk; Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores Of happiness, to when upon the moors, Benighted, close they huddled from the cold, And shar'd their famish'd scrips. Thus all out-told Their fond imaginations,saving him Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim, Endymion: yet hourly had he striven To hide the cankering venom, that had riven His fainting recollections. Now indeed His senses had swoon'd off: he did not heed The sudden silence, or the whispers low, Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe, Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms, Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms: But in the self-same fixed trance he kept, Like one who on the earth had never stept. Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man, Frozen in that old tale Arabian. Who whispers him so pantingly and close? Peona, his sweet sister: of all those, His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made, And breath'd a sister's sorrow to persuade A yielding up, a cradling on her care. Her eloquence did breathe away the curse: She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse Of happy changes in emphatic dreams, Along a path between two little streams, Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small; Until they came to where these streamlets fall, With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush With crystal mocking of the trees and sky. A little shallop, floating there hard by, Pointed its beak over the fringed bank; And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank, And dipt again, with the young couple's weight, Peona guiding, through the water straight, Towards a bowery island opposite; Which gaining presently, she steered light Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove, Where nested was an arbour, overwove By many a summer's silent fingering; To whose cool bosom she was used to bring Her playmates, with their needle broidery, And minstrel memories of times gone by. So she was gently glad to see him laid Under her favourite bower's quiet shade, On her own couch, new made of flower leaves, Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves When last the sun his autumn tresses shook, And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took. Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest: But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest Peona's busy hand against his lips, And still, a sleeping, held her finger-tips In tender pressure. And as a willow keeps A patient watch over the stream that creeps Windingly by it, so the quiet maid Held her in peace: so that a whispering blade Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustling Among seer leaves and twigs, might all be heard. O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'd Restraint! imprisoned liberty! great key To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves And moonlight; aye, to all the mazy world Of silvery enchantment!who, upfurl'd Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour, But renovates and lives?Thus, in the bower, Endymion was calm'd to life again. Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain, He said: "I feel this thine endearing love All through my bosom: thou art as a dove Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings About me; and the pearliest dew not brings Such morning incense from the fields of May, As do those brighter drops that twinkling stray From those kind eyes,the very home and haunt Of sisterly affection. Can I want Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears? Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears That, any longer, I will pass my days Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise My voice upon the mountain-heights; once more Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar: Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll Around the breathed boar: again I'll poll The fair-grown yew tree, for a chosen bow: And, when the pleasant sun is getting low, Again I'll linger in a sloping mead To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered sweet, And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat My soul to keep in its resolved course." Hereat Peona, in their silver source, Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim, And took a lute, from which there pulsing came A lively prelude, fashioning the way In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay More subtle cadenced, more forest wild Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child; And nothing since has floated in the air So mournful strange. Surely some influence rare Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand; For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'd The quick invisible strings, even though she saw Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw Before the deep intoxication. But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon Her self-possessionswung the lute aside, And earnestly said: "Brother, 'tis vain to hide That thou dost know of things mysterious, Immortal, starry; such alone could thus Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd in aught Offensive to the heavenly powers? Caught A Paphian dove upon a message sent? Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent, Sacred to Dian? Haply, thou hast seen Her naked limbs among the alders green; And that, alas! is death. No, I can trace Something more high perplexing in thy face!" Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand, And said, "Art thou so pale, who wast so bland And merry in our meadows? How is this? Tell me thine ailment: tell me all amiss! Ah! thou hast been unhappy at the change Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange? Or more complete to overwhelm surmise? Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize, That toiling years would put within my grasp, That I have sigh'd for: with so deadly gasp No man e'er panted for a mortal love. So all have set my heavier grief above These things which happen. Rightly have they done: I, who still saw the horizontal sun Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world, Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd My spear aloft, as signal for the chace I, who, for very sport of heart, would race With my own steed from Araby; pluck down A vulture from his towery perching; frown A lion into growling, loth retire To lose, at once, all my toil breeding fire, And sink thus low! but I will ease my breast Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest. "This river does not see the naked sky, Till it begins to progress silverly Around the western border of the wood, Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood Seems at the distance like a crescent moon: And in that nook, the very pride of June, Had I been used to pass my weary eves; The rather for the sun unwilling leaves So dear a picture of his sovereign power, And I could witness his most kingly hour, When he doth lighten up the golden reins, And paces leisurely down amber plains His snorting four. Now when his chariot last Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red: At which I wondered greatly, knowing well That but one night had wrought this flowery spell; And, sitting down close by, began to muse What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus, In passing here, his owlet pinions shook; Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth, Had dipt his rod in it: such garland wealth Came not by common growth. Thus on I thought, Until my head was dizzy and distraught. Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul; And shaping visions all about my sight Of colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light; The which became more strange, and strange, and dim, And then were gulph'd in a tumultuous swim: And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell The enchantment that afterwards befel? Yet it was but a dream: yet such a dream That never tongue, although it overteem With mellow utterance, like a cavern spring, Could figure out and to conception bring All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay Watching the zenith, where the milky way Among the stars in virgin splendour pours; And travelling my eye, until the doors Of heaven appear'd to open for my flight, I became loth and fearful to alight From such high soaring by a downward glance: So kept me stedfast in that airy trance, Spreading imaginary pinions wide. When, presently, the stars began to glide, And faint away, before my eager view: At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue, And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge; And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emerge The loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'er A shell for Neptune's goblet: she did soar So passionately bright, my dazzled soul Commingling with her argent spheres did roll Through clear and cloudy, even when she went At last into a dark and vapoury tent Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train Of planets all were in the blue again. To commune with those orbs, once more I rais'd My sight right upward: but it was quite dazed By a bright something, sailing down apace, Making me quickly veil my eyes and face: Again I look'd, and, O ye deities, Who from Olympus watch our destinies! Whence that completed form of all completeness? Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness? Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O Where Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair? Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun; Notthy soft hand, fair sister! let me shun Such follying before theeyet she had, Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad; And they were simply gordian'd up and braided, Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded, Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow; The which were blended in, I know not how, With such a paradise of lips and eyes, Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs, That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings And plays about its fancy, till the stings Of human neighbourhood envenom all. Unto what awful power shall I call? To what high fane?Ah! see her hovering feet, More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweet Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion; 'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed, Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed, Handfuls of daisies.""Endymion, how strange! Dream within dream!""She took an airy range, And then, towards me, like a very maid, Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid, And press'd me by the hand: Ah! 'twas too much; Methought I fainted at the charmed touch, Yet held my recollection, even as one Who dives three fathoms where the waters run Gurgling in beds of coral: for anon, I felt upmounted in that region Where falling stars dart their artillery forth, And eagles struggle with the buffeting north That balances the heavy meteor-stone; Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone, But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous sky. Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high, And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd; Such as ay muster where grey time has scoop'd Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side: There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I sigh'd To faint once more by looking on my bliss I was distracted; madly did I kiss The wooing arms which held me, and did give My eyes at once to death: but 'twas to live, To take in draughts of life from the gold fount Of kind and passionate looks; to count, and count The moments, by some greedy help that seem'd A second self, that each might be redeem'd And plunder'd of its load of blessedness. Ah, desperate mortal! I ev'n dar'd to press Her very cheek against my crowned lip, And, at that moment, felt my body dip Into a warmer air: a moment more, Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, Loiter'd around us; then of honey cells, Made delicate from all white-flower bells; And once, above the edges of our nest, An arch face peep'd,an Oread as I guess'd. "Why did I dream that sleep o'er-power'd me In midst of all this heaven? Why not see, Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark, And stare them from me? But no, like a spark That needs must die, although its little beam Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream Fell into nothinginto stupid sleep. And so it was, until a gentle creep, A careful moving caught my waking ears, And up I started: Ah! my sighs, my tears, My clenched hands;for lo! the poppies hung Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung A heavy ditty, and the sullen day Had chidden herald Hesperus away, With leaden looks: the solitary breeze Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did teaze With wayward melancholy; and r thought, Mark me, Peona! that sometimes it brought Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus! Away I wander'dall the pleasant hues Of heaven and earth had faded: deepest shades Were deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny glades Were full of pestilent light; our taintless rills Seem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with upturn'd gills Of dying fish; the vermeil rose had blown In frightful scarlet, and its thorns out-grown Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'd In little journeys, I beheld in it A disguis'd demon, missioned to knit My soul with under darkness; to entice My stumblings down some monstrous precipice: Therefore I eager followed, and did curse The disappointment. Time, that aged nurse, Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven! These things, with all their comfortings, are given To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea Of weary life."          Thus ended he, and both Sat silent: for the maid was very loth To answer; feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps, And wonders; struggles to devise some blame; To put on such a look as would say, Shame On this poor weakness! but, for all her strife, She could as soon have crush'd away the life From a sick dove. At length, to break the pause, She said with trembling chance: "Is this the cause? This all? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas! That one who through this middle earth should pass Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave His name upon the harp-string, should achieve No higher bard than simple maidenhood, Singing alone, and fearfully,how the blood Left his young cheek; and how he used to stray He knew not where; and how he would say, nay, If any said 'twas love: and yet 'twas love; What could it be but love? How a ring-dove Let fall a sprig of yew tree in his path; And how he died: and then, that love doth scathe, The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses; And then the ballad of his sad life closes With sighs, and an alas!Endymion! Be rather in the trumpet's mouth,anon Among the winds at largethat all may hearken! Although, before the crystal heavens darken, I watch and dote upon the silver lakes Pictur'd in western cloudiness, that takes The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands, Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands With horses prancing o'er them, palaces And towers of amethyst,would I so tease My pleasant days, because I could not mount Into those regions? The Morphean fount Of that fine element that visions, dreams, And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams Into its airy channels with so subtle, So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle, Circled a million times within the space Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace, A tinting of its quality: how light Must dreams themselves be; seeing they're more slight Than the mere nothing that engenders them! Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick? Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick For nothing but a dream?" Hereat the youth Look'd up: a conflicting of shame and ruth Was in his plaited brow: yet his eyelids Widened a little, as when Zephyr bids A little breeze to creep between the fans Of careless butterflies: amid his pains He seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew, Full palatable; and a colour grew Upon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake. "Peona! ever have I long'd to slake My thirst for the world's praises: nothing base, No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepar'd Though now 'tis tatter'd; leaving my bark bar'd And sullenly drifting: yet my higher hope Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope, To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks. Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks Our ready minds to fellowship divine, A fellowship with essence; till we shine, Full alchemiz'd, and free of space. Behold The clear religion of heaven! Fold A rose leaf round thy finger's taperness, And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy stress Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds, And with a sympathetic touch unbinds Eolian magic from their lucid wombs: Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs; Old ditties sigh above their father's grave; Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot; Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit, Where long ago a giant battle was; And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass In every place where infant Orpheus slept. Feel we these things?that moment have we stept Into a sort of oneness, and our state Is like a floating spirit's. But there are Richer entanglements, enthralments far More self-destroying, leading, by degrees, To the chief intensity: the crown of these Is made of love and friendship, and sits high Upon the forehead of humanity. All its more ponderous and bulky worth Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth A steady splendour; but at the tip-top, There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop Of light, and that is love: its influence, Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense, At which we start and fret; till in the end, Melting into its radiance, we blend, Mingle, and so become a part of it, Nor with aught else can our souls interknit So wingedly: when we combine therewith, Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith, And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. Aye, so delicious is the unsating food, That men, who might have tower'd in the van Of all the congregated world, to fan And winnow from the coming step of time All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime Left by men-slugs and human serpentry, Have been content to let occasion die, Whilst they did sleep in love's elysium. And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb, Than speak against this ardent listlessness: For I have ever thought that it might bless The world with benefits unknowingly; As does the nightingale, upperched high, And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood. Just so may love, although 'tis understood The mere commingling of passionate breath, Produce more than our searching witnesseth: What I know not: but who, of men, can tell That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones, The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet, If human souls did never kiss and greet? "Now, if this earthly love has power to make Men's being mortal, immortal; to shake Ambition from their memories, and brim Their measure of content; what merest whim, Seems all this poor endeavour after fame, To one, who keeps within his stedfast aim A love immortal, an immortal too. Look not so wilder'd; for these things are true, And never can be born of atomies That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies, Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. My sayings will the less obscured seem, When I have told thee how my waking sight Has made me scruple whether that same night Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona! Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, Which we should see but for these darkening boughs, Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide Past them, but he must brush on every side. Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell, Far as the slabbed margin of a well, Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky. Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet Edges them round, and they have golden pits: 'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat, When all above was faint with mid-day heat. And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, I'd bubble up the water through a reed; So reaching back to boy-hood: make me ships Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily, When love-lorn hours had left me less a child, I sat contemplating the figures wild Of o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through. Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flew A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver; So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiver The happy chance: so happy, I was fain To follow it upon the open plain, And, therefore, was just going; when, behold! A wonder, fair as any I have told The same bright face I tasted in my sleep, Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap Through the cool depth.It moved as if to flee I started up, when lo! refreshfully, There came upon my face, in plenteous showers, Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers, Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight, Bathing my spirit in a new delight. Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss Alone preserved me from the drear abyss Of death, for the fair form had gone again. Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth On the deer's tender haunches: late, and loth, 'Tis scar'd away by slow returning pleasure. How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure Of weary days, made deeper exquisite, By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night! Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still, Than when I wander'd from the poppy hill: And a whole age of lingering moments crept Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen; Once more been tortured with renewed life. When last the wintry gusts gave over strife With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes In pity of the shatter'd infant buds, That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs, My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and smil'd, Chatted with thee, and many days exil'd All torment from my breast;'twas even then, Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den Of helpless discontent,hurling my lance From place to place, and following at chance, At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck, And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck In the middle of a brook,whose silver ramble Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble, Tracing along, it brought me to a cave, Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, 'Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home. "Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?" Said I, low voic'd: "Ah whither! 'Tis the grot Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, Doth her resign; and where her tender hands She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands: Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits, And babbles thorough silence, till her wits Are gone in tender madness, and anon, Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone Of sadness. O that she would take my vows, And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head, Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed, And weave them dyinglysend honey-whispers Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers May sigh my love unto her pitying! O charitable echo! hear, and sing This ditty to her!tell her"so I stay'd My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, Stood stupefied with my own empty folly, And blushing for the freaks of melancholy. Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came: Endymion! the cave is secreter Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys And trembles through my labyrinthine hair." At that oppress'd I hurried in.Ah! where Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled? I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed Sorrow the way to death, but patiently Bear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh; And come instead demurest meditation, To occupy me wholly, and to fashion My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. No more will I count over, link by link, My chain of grief: no longer strive to find A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind Blustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see, Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be; What a calm round of hours shall make my days. There is a paly flame of hope that plays Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis naught And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, Already, a more healthy countenance? By this the sun is setting; we may chance Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car." This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand: They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land. ENDYMION. A Romance. "The stretched metre of an antique song." ~ Shakspeare's Sonnets. INSCRIBED, With Every Feeling Of Pride and Regret and With "A Bowed Mind," To the Memory of The Most English of Poets Except Shakspeare, THOMAS CHATTERON. ------------------------ (line 144): A lovely allusion to the story of Apollo's nine years' sojourn on earth as the herdsman of Admetus, when banished from Olympus for killing the Cyclops who had forged the thunder-bolts wherewith AEsculapius had been slain. (line 232): It was the Hymn to Pan beginning here that the young poet when engaged in the composition of Endymion was induced to recite in the presence of Wordsworth, on the 28th of December 1817, at Haydon's house. Leigh Hunt records that the elder poet pronounced it "a very pretty piece of paganism." (line 319): Doubtless meant to refer specially to the Elgin marbles. (line 347): The reference here is to the passage from the second Book of the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, beginning at verse 674 ... which Shelley had in mind when (Prose Works, Vol. 3, p. 56) he alluded to the Apollo "so finely described by Apollonius Rhodius when the dazzling radiance of his beautiful limbs suddenly shone over the dark Euxine." __ note found before the Preface of Endymion, in the Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. ..., 'In Woodhouse's copy of Endymion there is a note against the passage "so I will begin" &c., line 39, Book I, to the effect that the poem was begun in the spring of 1817 and finished in the winter of 1817-18; and in the title-page he has inserted April before 1818. The statement corresponds with Keats's own record of May 1817, that he was busying himself at Margate with the commencement of Endymion.' PREFACE. Knowing within myself the manner in which this Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it public. What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their passing the press; nor should they if I thought a year's castigation would do them any good; -- it will not: the foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live. This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment: but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it: he will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look with a zealous eye, to the honor of English literature. The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages. I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try once more, before I bid it farewell. Teignmouth, April 10, 1818. [footnote] Woodhouse notes -- "[for I wish to try once more,] This alluded to his then intention of writing a poem on the fall of Hyperion. He commenced this poem: but, thanks to the critics who fell foul of this work, he discontinued it. The fragment was published in 1820." by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Endymion - Book I ,

882:Pearl Pearl of delight that a prince doth please To grace in gold enclosed so clear, I vow that from over orient seas Never proved I any in price her peer. So round, so radiant ranged by these, So fine, so smooth did her sides appear That ever in judging gems that please Her only alone I deemed as dear. Alas! I lost her in garden near: Through grass to the ground from me it shot; I pine now oppressed by love-wound drear For that pearl, mine own, without a spot. Since in that spot it sped from me, I have looked and longed for that precious thing That me once was wont from woe to free, To uplift my lot and healing bring, But my heart doth hurt now cruelly, My breast with burning torment sting. Yet in secret hour came soft to me The sweetest song I e'er heard sing; Yea, many a thought in mind did spring To think that her radiance in clay should rot. O mould! Thou marrest a lovely thing, My pearl, mine own, without a spot. In that spot must needs be spices spread Where away such wealth to waste hath run; Blossoms pale and blue and red There shimmer shining in the sun; No flower nor fruit their hue may shed Where it down into darkling earth was done, For all grass must grow from grains that are dead, No wheat would else to barn be won. From good all good is ever begun, And fail so fair a seed could not, So that sprang and sprouted spices none 504 From that precious pearl without a spot. That spot whereof I speak I found When I entered in that garden green, As August's season high came round When corn is cut with sickles keen. There, where that pearl rolled down, a mound With herbs was shadowed fair and sheen, With gillyflower, ginger, and gromwell crowned, And peonies powdered all between. If sweet was all that there was seen, Fair too, a fragrance flowed I wot, Where dwells that dearest, as I ween, My precious pearl without a spot. By that spot my hands I wrung dismayed; For care full cold that had me caught A hopeless grief on my heart was laid. Though reason to reconcile me sought, For my pearl there prisoned a plaint I made, In fierce debate unmoved I fought; Be comforted Christ Himself me bade, But in woe my will ever strove distraught. On the flowery plot I fell, methought; Such odour through my senses shot, I slipped and to sudden sleep was brought, O'er that precious pearl without a spot. From that spot my spirit sprang apace, On the turf my body abode in trance; My would was gone by God's own grace Adventuring where marvels chance. I knew not where in the world was that place Save by cloven cliffs was set my stance; And towards a forest I turned my face, Where rocks in splendour met my glance; From them did a glittering glory lance, None could believe the light they lent; Never webs were woven in mortal haunts 505 Of half such wealth and wonderment. Wondrous was made each mountain-side With crystal cliffs so clear of hue; About them woodlands bright lay wide, As Indian dye their boles were blue; The leaves did as burnished silver slide That thick upon twigs were trembling grew. When glades let light upon them glide They shone with a shimmer of dazzling hue. The gravel on ground that I trod with shoe Was of precious pearls of Orient: Sunbeams are blear and dark to view Compared with that fair wonderment. In wonder at those fells so fair My soul all grief forgot let fall; Odours so fresh of fruits there were, I was fed as by food celestial. In the woods the birds did wing and pair, Of flaming hues, both great and small; But cithern-string and gittern-player Their merry mirth could ne'er recall, For when the beat their pinions all In harmony their voices bent: No delight more lovely could men enthrall Than behold and hear that wonderment. Thus arrayed was all in wonderment That forest where forth my fortune led; No man its splendour to present With tongue could worthy words have said. I walked ever onward well-content; No hill was so tall that it stayed my tread; More fair the further afield I went Were plants, and fruits, and spices spread; Through hedge and mead lush waters led As in strands of gold there steeply pent. A river I reached in cloven bed: 506 O Lord! the wealth of its wonderment! 10 The adornments of that wondrous deep Were beauteous banks of beryl bright: Swirling sweetly its waters sweep, Ever rippling on in murmurous flight. In the depths stood dazzling stones aheap As a glitter through glass that glowed with light, As streaming stars when on earth men sleep Stare in the welkin in winter night; For emerald, sapphire, or jewel bright Was every pebble in pool there pent, And the water was lit with rays of light, Such wealth was in its wonderment. 11 The wonderous wealth of down and dales, of wood and water and lordly plain, My mirth makes mount: my mourning fails, My care is quelled and cured my pain. Then down a stream that strongly sails I blissful turn with teeming brain; The further I follow those flowing vales The more strength of joy my heart doth strain. As fortune fares where she doth deign, Whether gladness she gives or grieving sore, So he who may her graces gain, His hap is to have ever more and more. 12 There more was of such marvels thrice Than I could tell, though I long delayed; For earthly heart could not suffice For a tithe of the joyful joys displayed. Therefore I thought that Paradise Across those banks was yonder laid; I weened that the water by device As bounds between pleasances was made; Beyond that stream by steep or slade That city's walls I weened must soar; But the water was deep, I dared not wade, 507 And ever I longed to, more and more. 13 More and more, and yet still more, I fain beyond the stream had scanned, For fair as was this hither shore, Far lovelier was the further land. To find a ford I did then explore, And round about did stare and stand; But perils pressed in sooth more sore The further I strode along the strand. I should not, I thought, by fear be banned From delights so lovely that lay in store; But a happening new then came to hand That moved my mind ever more and more. 14 A marvel more did my mind amaze: I saw beyond that border bright From a crystal cliff the lucent rays And beams in splendour lift their light. A child abode there at its base: She wore a gown of glistening white, A gentle maid of courtly grace; Erewhile I had known her well by sight. As shredded gold that glistered bright She shone in beauty upon the shore; Long did my glance on her alight, And the longer I looked I knew her more. 15 The more I that face so fair surveyed, When upon her gracious form I gazed, Such gladdening glory upon me played As my wont was seldom to see upraised. Desire to call her then me swayed, But dumb surprise my mind amazed; In place so strange I saw that maid, The blow might well my wits have crazed. Her forehead fair then up she raised That hue of polished ivory wore. It smote my heart distraught and dazed, 508 And ever the longer, the more and more. 16 More than I would my dread did rise. I stood there still and dared not call With closed mouth and open eyes, I stood as tame as hawk in hall. A ghost was present, I did surmise, And feared for what might then befall, Lest she should flee before mine eyes Ere I to tryst could her recall. So smooth, so seemly, slight and small, That flawless fair and mirthful maid Arose in robes majestical, A precious gem in pearls arrayed. 17 There pearls arrayed and royally dight Might one have seen by fortune graced When fresh as flower-de-luces bright She down to the water swiftly paced In linen robe of glistening white, With open sides that seams enlaced With the merriest margery-pearls my sight Ever before, I vow, had traced. Her sleeves hung long below her waist Adorned with pearls in double braid; Her kirtle matched her mantle chaste All about with precious pearls arrayed. 18 A crown arrayed too wore that girl Of margery-stones and others none, With pinnacles of pure white pearl That perfect flowers were figured on, On head nought else her hair did furl, And it framed, as it did round her run, Her countenance grave for duke or earl, And her hue as rewel ivory wan. As shredded sheen of gold then shone Her locks on shoulder loosly laid. Her colour pure was surpassed by none 509 Of the pearls in purfling rare arrayed. 19 Arrayed was wristlet, and the hems were dight At hands, at sides, at throat so fair With no gem but the pearl all white And burnished white her garments were; But a wondrous pearl unstained and bright She amidst her breast secure did bear; Ere mind could fathom its worth and might Man's reason thwarted would despair. No tongue could in worthy words declare The beauty that was there displayed, It was so polished, pure, and fair, That precious pearl on her arrayed. 20 In pearls arrayed that maiden free Beyond the stream came down the strand. From here to Greece none as glad could be As I on shore to see her stand, Than aunt or niece more near to me: The more did joy my heart expand. She deigned to speak, so sweet was she, Bowed low as ladies' ways demand. With her crown of countless worth in hand A gracious welcome she me bade. My birth I blessed, who on the strand To my love replied in pearls arrayed. 21 'O Pearl!' said I, 'in pearls arrayed, Are you my pearl whose loss I mourn? Lament alone by night I made, Much longing I have hid for thee forlorn, Since to the grass you from me strayed. While I pensive waste by weeping worn, Your life of joy in the land is laid Of Paradise by strife untorn. What fate hath hither my jewel borne And made me mourning's prisoner? Since asunder we in twain were torn, 510 I have been a joyless jeweller.' 22 That jewel in gems so excellent Lifted her glance with eyes of grey, Put on her crown of pearl-orient, And gravely then began to say: 'Good sir, you have your speech mis-spent to say your pearl is all away that is in chest so choicely pent, Even in this gracious garden gay, Here always to linger and to play Where regret nor grief e'er trouble her. 'Here is a casket safe' you would say. If you were a gentle jeweller. 23 But jeweller gentle, if from you goes Your joy through a gem that you held lief, Methinks your mind toward madness flows And frets for a fleeting cause of grief. For what you lost was but a rose That by nature failed after flowering brief; Now the casket's virtues that it enclose Prove it a pearl of price in chief; And yet you have called your fate a thief That of naught to aught hath fashioned her, You grudge the healing of your grief, You are no grateful jeweller.' 24 Then a jewel methought had now come near, And jewels the courteous speech she made. 'My blissful one,' quoth I, 'most dear, My sorrows deep you have all allayed. To pardon me I pray you here! In the darkness I deemed my pearl was laid; I have found it now, and shall make good cheer, With it dwell in shining grove and glade, And praise all the laws that my Lord hath made, Who hath brought me near such bliss with her. Now could I to reach you these waters wade, 511 I should be a joyful jeweller.' 25 'Jeweller,' rejoined that jewel clean, 'Why jest ye men? How mad ye be! Three things at once you have said, I ween: Thoughtless, forsooth, were all the three, You know now on earth what one doth mean; Your words from your wits escaping flee: You believe I live here on this green, Because you can with eyes me see; Again, you will in this land with me Here dwell yourself, you now aver; And thirdly, pass this water free: That may no joyful jeweller. 26 I hold that jeweller worth little praise Who well esteems what he sees with eye, And much to blame his graceless wayus Who believes our Lord would speak a lie. He promised faithfully your lives to raise Though fate decreed your flesh should die; His words as nonsense ye appraise Who approve of naught not seen with eye; And that presumption doth imply, Which all good men doth ill beseem, On tale as true ne'er to rely Save private reason right it deem. 27 Do you deem that you yourself maintain Such words as man to God should dare? You will dwell, you say, in this domain: 'Twere best for leave first offer prayer, And yet that grace yo umight not gain. Now over this water you wish to fare: By another course you must that attain; Your flesh shall in clay find colder lair, For our heedless father did of old prepare Its doom by Eden's grove and stream; Through dismal death must each man fare, 512 Ere o're this deep him God redeem.' 28 'If my doom you deem it, maiden sweet, To mourn once more, then I must pine. Now my lost one found again I greet, Must bereavement new till death be mine? Why must I at once both part and meet? My precious pearl doth my pain design! What use hath treasure but tears to repeat, When one at its loss must again repine? Now I care not though my days decline Outlawed afar o'er land and stream; When in my pearl no part is mine, Only endless dolour one that may deem.' 29 'But of woe, I deem, and deep distress You speak,' she said. 'Why do you so? Through loud lament when they lose the less Oft many men the more forego. 'Twere better with cross yourself to bless, Ever praising God in weal and woe; For resentment gains you not a cress: Who must needs endure, he may not say no! For though you dance as any doe, Rampant bray or raging scream, When escape you cannot, to nor fro, His doom you must abide, I deem. 30 Deem God unjust, the Lord indict, From His way a foot He will not wend; The relief amounts not to a mite, Though gladness your grief may never end. Cease then to wrangle, to speak in spite, And swiftly seek Him as your friend, You prayer His pity may excite, So that Mercy shall her powers expend. To you languor He may comfort lend, And swiftly your griefs removed may seem; For lament or rave, to submit pretend, 513 'Tis His to ordain what He right may deem.' 31 Then I said, I deem, to that damosel: 'May I give no grievance to my Lord, Rash fool, though blundering tale I tell. My heart the pain of loss outpoured, Gushing as water springs from well. I commit me ever to His mercy's ward. Rebuke me not with words so fell, Though I erring stray, my dear adored! But your comfort kindly to me accord, In pity bethinking you of this: For partner you did me pain award On whom was founded all my bliss. 32 Both bliss and gried you have been to me, But of woe far greater hath been my share. You were caught away from all perils free, But my pearl was gone, I knew not where; My sorrow is softened now I it see. When we parted, too, at one we were; Now God forbid that we angry be! We meet on our roads by chance so rare. Though your converse courtly is and fair, I am but mould and good manners miss. Christ's mercy, Mary and John: I dare Only on these to found my bliss. 33 In bliss you abide and happiness, And I with woe an worn and grey; Oft searing sorrows I possess, Yet little heed to that you pay. But now I here yourself address, Without reproach I would you pray To deign in sober words express What life you lead the livelong day. For delighted I am that your lot, you say, So glorious and so glad now is; There finds my joy its foremost way, 514 On that is founded all my bliss.' 34 'Now bliss you ever bless!' she cried, Lovely in limb, in hue so clear, 'And welcome here to walk and bide; For now your words are to me dear. Masterful mood and haughty pride, I warn you, are bitterly hated here. It doth not delight my Lord to chide, For meek are all that dwell Him near. So, when in His place you must appear, Be devout in humble lowliness: To my Lord, the Lamb, such a mien is dear, On whom is founded all my bliss. 35 A blissful life you say is mine; You wish to know in what degree. Your pearl you know you did resign When in young and tender years was she; Yet my Lord, the Lamb, through power divine Myself He chose His bride to be, And crowned me queen in bliss to shine, While days shall endure eternally. Dowered with His heritage all is she That is His love. I am wholly His: On His glory, honour, and high degree Are built and founded all my bliss.' 36 'O blissful!' said I, 'can this be true? Be not displased if in speech I err! Are you the queen of heavens blue, Whom all must honour on earth that fare? We believe that our Grace of Mary grew, Who in virgin-bloom a babe did bear; And claim her crown: who could this do But once that surpassed her in favour fair? And yet for unrivalled sweetness rare We call her the Phoenix of Araby, That her Maker let faultless wing the air, 515 Like to the Queen of Courtesy.' 37 'O courteous Queen,' that damsel said, Kneeling on earth with uplifted face, 'Mother immaculate, and fairest maid, Blessed beginner of every grace!' Uprising then her prayer she stayed, And there she spoke to me a space: 'Here many the prize they have gained are praid, But usurpers, sir, here have no place. That empress' realm doth heaven embrace, From their heritage yet will none displace, For she is the Queen of Courtesy. 38 'The court where the living God doth reign Hath a virtue of its own being, That each who may thereto attain Of all the realm is queen or king, Yet never shall other's right obtain, But in other's good each glorying And wishing each crown worth five again, If amended might be so fair a thing. But my Lady of whom did Jesu spring, O'er us high she holds her empery, And none that grieves of our following, For she is the Queen of Courtesy.' 39 In courtesy we are members all Of Jesus Christ, Saint Paul doth write: As head, arm, leg, and navel small To their body doth loyalty true unite, So as limbs to their Master mystical All Christian souls belong by right. Now among your limbs can you find at all Any tie or bond of hate or spite? Your head doth not feel affront or slight On your arm or finger though ring it see; So we all proceed in love's delight To king and queen by courtesy.' 516 40 'Courtesy,' I said, 'I do believe And charity great dwells you among, But may my words no wise you grieve, ............................................................. You in heaven too high yourself conceive To make you a queen who were so young. What honour more might he achieve Who in strife on earth was ever strong, And lived his life in penance long With his body's pain to get bliss for fee? What greater glory could to him belong Than king to be crowned by courtesy? 41 That courtesy gives its gifts too free, If it be sooth that you now say. Two years you lived not on earth with me, And God you could not please, nor pray With Pater and Creed upon your knee And made a queen that very day! I cannot believe, God helping me, That God so far from right would stray. Of a countess, damsel, I must say, 'Twere fair in heaven to find the grace, Or of lady even of less array, But a queen! It is too high a place.' 42 'Neither time nor place His grace confine', Then said to me that maiden bright, 'For just is all that He doth assign, And nothing can He work but right. In God's true gospel, in words divine That Matthew in your mass doth cite, A tale he aptly doth design, In parable saith of heaven's light: 'My realm on high I liken might To a vineyard owner in this case. The year had run to season right; To dress the vines 'twas time and place. 517 43 All labourers know when that time is due. The master up full early rose To hire him vineyard workers new; And some to suit his needs he chose. Together they pledge agreement true For a penny a day, and forth each goes, Travails and toils to tie and hew, Binds and prunes and in order stows. In forenoon the master to market goes, And there finds men that idle laze. 'Why stand ye idle? he said to those. 'Do ye know not time of day nor place?' 44 'This place we reached betimes ere day', This answer from all alike he drew, 'Since sunrise standing here we stay, And no man offers us work to do.' 'Go to my vineyard! Do what ye may!' Said the lord, and made a bargain true: 'In deed and intent I to you will pay What hire may justly by night accrue.' They went to his vines and laboured too, But the lord all day that way did pace, And brought to his vineyard workers new, Till daytime almost passed that place. 45 In that place at time of evensong, One hour before the set of sun, He saw there idle labourers strong And thus his earnest words did run: 'Why stand ye idle all day long?' They said they chance of hire had none. 'Go to my vineyard, yeoman young, And work and do what may be done!' The hour grew late and sank the sun, Dusk came o'er the world apace; He called them to claim the wage they had won, For time of day had passed that place. 518 46 The time in that place he well did know; He called: 'Sir steward, the people pay! Give them hire that I them owe. Moreover, that none reproach me may, Set them all in a single row, And to each alike give a penny a day; Begin at the last that stands below, Till to the first you make your way.' Then the first began to complain and say That they had laboured long and sore: 'These but one hour in stress did stay; It seems to us we should get more. 47 More have we earned, we think it true, Who have borne the daylong heat indeed, Than these who hours have worked not two, And yet you our equals have decreed.' One such the lord then turned him to: 'My friend, I will not curtail your meed. Go now and take what is your due! For a penny I hired you as agreed, Why now to wrangle do you proceed? Was it not a penny you bargained for? To surpass his bargain may no man plead. Why then will you ask for more? 48 Nay, more - am I not allowed in gift To dispose of mine as I please to do? Or your eye to evil, maybe, you lift, For I none betray and I am true?' 'Thus I', said Christ, 'shall the order shift: The last shall come first to take his due, And the first come last, be he never so swift; For many are called, but the favourites few.' Thus the poor get ever their portion too, Though late they came and little bore; And though to their labour little accrue, The mercy of God is much the more. 519 49 More is my joy and bliss herein, The flower of my life, my lady's height, Than all the folk in the world might win, Did they seek award on ground of right. Though 'twas but now that I entered in, And came to the vineyard by eveing's light, First with my hire did my Lord begin; I was paid at once to the furthest mite. Yet others in toil without respite That had laboured and sweated long of yore, He did not yet with hire requite, Nor will, perchance, for years yet more.' 50 Then more I said and spoke out plain: 'Unreasonable is what you say. Ever ready God's justice on high doth reign, Or a fable doth Holy Writ purvey. The Psalms a cogent verse contain, Which puts a point that one must weigh: 'High King, who all dost foreordain, His deserts Thou dost to each repay.' Now if daylong one did steadfast stay, And you to payment came him before, Then lesser work can earn more pay; And the longer you reckon, the less hath more.' 51 'Of more and less in God's domains No question arises,' said that maid, 'For equal hire there each one gains, Be geurdon great or small him paid. No churl is our Chieftain that in bounty reigns, Be soft or hard by Him purveyed; As water of dike His gifts He drains, Or streams from a deep by drought unstayed. Free is the pardon to him conveyed Who in fear to the Saviour in sin did bow; No bars from bliss will for such be made, For the grace of God is great enow. 520 52 But now to defeat me you debate That wrongly my penny I have taken here; Deserve not hire at price so dear. Where heard you ever of man relate Who, pious in prayer from year to year, Did not somehow forfeit the guerdon great Sometime of Heaven's glory clear? Nay, wrong men work, from right they veer, And ever the ofter the older, I trow. Mercy and grace must then them steer, For the grace of God is great enow. 53 But enow have the innocent of grace. As soon as born, in lawful line Baptismal waters them embrace; Then they are brought unto the vine. Anon the day with darkened face Doth toward the night of death decline. They wrought no wrong while in that place, And his workmen then pays the Lord divine. They were there; they worked at his design; Why should He not their toil allow, Yea, first to them their hire assign? For the grace of God is great enow. 54 Enow 'tis known that Man's high kind At first for perfect bliss was bred. Our eldest father that grace resigned Through an apple upon which he fed. We were all damned, for that food assigned To die in grief, all joy to shed, And after in flames of hell confined To dwell for ever unrespited. But soon a healing hither sped: Rich blood ran on rough rood-bough, And water fair. In that hour of dread The grace of God grew great enow. 521 55 Enow there went forth from that well Water and blood from wounds so wide: The blood redeemed us from pains of hell Of the second death the bond untied; The water is baptism, truth to tell, That the spear so grimly ground let glide. It washes away the trespass fell By which Adam drowned us in deathly tide. No bars in the world us from Bliss divide In blessed hour restored, I trow, Save those that He hath drawn aside; And the grace of God is great enow. 56 Grace enow may the man receive Who sins anew, if he repent; But craving it he must sigh and grieve And abide what pains are consequent. But reason that right can never leave Evermore preserves the innocent; 'Tis a judgement God did never give That the guiltless should ever have punishment. The guilty, contrite and penitent, Through mercy may to grace take flight; But he that to treachery never bent In innocence is saved by right. 57 It is right thus by reason, as in this case I learn, to save these two from ill; The righteous man shall see His face, Come unto him the harmless will. This point the Psalms in a passage raise: 'Who, Lord, shall climb Thy lofty hill, Or rest within Thy holy place?' He doth the answer swift fulfil: 'Who wrought with hands no harm nor ill, Who is of heart both clean and bright, His steps shall there be steadfast still': The innocent ever is saved by right. 522 58 The righteous too, one many maintain, He shall to that noble tower repair, Who leads not his life in folly vain, Nor guilefully doth to neighbour swear. That Wisdom did honour once obtain For such doth Solomon declare: She pressed him on by ways made plain And showed him afar God's kingdom fair, As if saying: 'That lovely island there That mayst thou win, be thou brave in fight.' But to say this doubtless one may dare: The innocent ever is saved by right. 59 To righteous men - have you seen it there? In the Psalter David a verse applied: 'Do not, Lord, Thy servant to judgement bear; For to Thee none living is justified.' So when to that Court you must repair Where all our cases shall be tried, If on right you stand, lest you trip beware, Warned by these words that I espied. But He on rood that bleeding died, Whose hands the nail did harshly smite, Grant you may pass, when you are tried, By innocence and not by right. 60 Let him that can rightly read in lore, Look in the Book and learn thereby How Jesus walked the world of yore, And people pressed their babes Him nigh, For joy and health from Him did pour. 'Our children touch!' they humbly cry, 'Let be!' his disciples rebuked them sore, And to many would approach deny. Then Jesus sweetly did reply: 'Nay! let children by me alight; For such is heaven prepared on high!' The innocent ever is saved by right. 523 61 Then Jesus summoned his servants mild, And said His realm no man might win, Unless he came there as a child; Else never should he come therein. Harmless, true, and undefiled, Without mark or mar of soiling sin, When such knock at those portals piled, Quick for them men will the gate unpin. That bliss unending dwells therein That the jeweller sought, above gems did rate, And sold all he had to clothe him in, To purchase a pearl immaculate. 62 This pearl immaculate purchased dear The jeweller gave all his goods to gain Is like the realm of heaven's sphere: So said the Lord of land and main; For it is flawless, clean and clear, Endlessly round, doth joy contain, And is shared by all the righteous here. Lo! amid my breast it doth remain; There my Lord, the Lamb that was bleeding slain, In token of peace it placed in state. I bid you the wayward world disdain And procure your pearl immaculate!' 63 'Immaculate Pearl in pearls unstained, Who bear of precious pearls the prize, Your figure fair for you who feigned? Who wrought your robe, he was full wise! Your beauty was never from nature gained; Pygmalion did ne'er your face devise; In Aristotle's learning is contained Of these properties' nature no surmise; Your hue the flower-de-luce defies, Your angel-bearing is of grace so great. What office, purest, me apprise Doth bear this pearl immaculate?' 524 64 'My immaculate Lamb, my final end Beloved, Who all can heal,' said she, 'Chose me as spouse, did to bridal bend That once would have seemed unmeet to be. From your weeping world when I did wend He called me to his felicity: 'Come hither to me, sweetest friend, For no blot nor spot is found in thee!' Power and beauty he gave to me; In his blood he washed my weeds in state, Crowned me clean in virginity, And arrayed me in pearls immaculate.' 65 'Why, immaculate bride of brightest flame, Who royalty have so rich and bare, Of what kind can He be, the Lamb you name, Who would you His wedded wife declare? Over others all hath climbed your fame, In lady's life with Him to fare. For Christ have lived in care and blame Many comely maids with comb in hair; Yet the prize from all those brave you bear, And all debar from bridal state, All save yourself so proud and fair, A matchless maid immaculate.' 66 'Immaculate, without a stain, Flawless I am', said that fair queen; 'And that I may with grace maintain, But 'matchless' I said not nor do mean. As brides of the Lamb in bliss we reign, Twelve times twelve thousand strong, I ween, As Apocalypse reveals it plain: In a throng they there by John were seen; On Zion's hill, that mount serene, The apostle had dream divine of them On that summit for marriage robed all clean In the city of New Jerusalem. 525 67 Of Jerusalem my tale doth tell, If you will know what His nature be, My Lamb, my Lord, my dear Jewel, My Joy, my Bliss, my Truelove free. Isaiah the prophet once said well In pity for His humility: 'That glorious Guiltless they did fell Without cause or charge of felony, As sheep to the slaughter led was He, And as lamb the shearer in hand doth hem His mouth he closed without plaint or plea, When the Jews Him judged in Jerusalem.' 68 In Jerusalem was my Truelove slain, On the rood by ruffians fierce was rent; Willing to suffer all our pain To Himself our sorrows sad He lent. With cruel blows His face was flain That was to behold so excellent: He for sin to be set at naught did deign, Who of sin Himself was innocent. Beneath the scourge and thorns He bent, And stretched on a cross's brutal stem As meek as lamb made no lament, And died for us in Jerusalem. 69 In Jerusalem, Jordan, and Galilee, As there baptized the good Saint John, With Isaiah well did his words agree. When to meet him once had Jesus gone He spake of Him this prophecy: 'Lo, the Lamb of God whom our trust is on! From the grievous sins He sets us free That all this world hath daily done.' He wrought himself yet never one, Though He smirched himself with all of them. Who can tell the Fathering of that Son That died for us in Jerusalem? 526 70 In Jerusalem as lamb they knew And twice thus took my Truelove dear, As in prophets both in record true, For His meekness and His gentle cheer. The third time well is matched thereto, In Apocalypse 'tis written clear: Where sat the saints, Him clear to view Amidst the throne the Apostle dear Saw loose the leaves of the book and shear The seven signets sewn on them. At that sight all folk there bowed in fear In hell, in earth, and Jerusalem. 71 Jerusalem's Lamb had never stain Of other hue than whiteness fair; There blot nor blemish could remain, So white the wool, so rich and rare. Thus every soul that no soil did gain His comely wife doth the Lamb declare; Though each day He a host obtain, No grudge nor grievance do we bear, But for each one five we wish there were. The more the merrier, so God me bless! Our love doth thrive where many fare In honour more and never less. 72 To less of bliss may none us bring Who bear this pearl upon each breast, For ne'er could they think of quarrelling Of spotless pearls who bear the crest. Though the clods may to our corses cling, And for woe ye wail bereaved of rest, From one death all our trust doth spring In knowledge complete by us possessed. The Lamb us gladdens, and, our grief redressed, Doth at every Mass with joy us bless. Here each hath bliss supreme and best, Yet no one's honour is ever the less. 527 73 Lest less to trust my tale you hold, In Apocalypse 'tis writ somewhere: 'The Lamb', saith John, 'I could behold On Zion standing proud and fair; With him maidens a hundred-thousand fold, And four and forty thousand were, Who all upon their brows inscrolled The Lamb's name and His Father's bare. A shout then I heard from heaven there, Like many floods met in pouring press; And as thunder in darkling tors doth blare, That noise, I believe, was nowise less. 74 But nonetheless, though it harshly roared, And echo loud though it was to hear, I heard them note then new accord, A delight as lovely to listening ear As harpers harping on harps afford. This new song now they sang full clear, With resounding notes in noble accord Making in choir their musics dear. Before God's very throne drawn near And the Beasts to Him bowed in lowliness And the ancient Elders grave of cheer They sang their song there, nonetheless. 75 Yet nonetheless were none so wise For all the arts that they ever knew Of that song who could a phrase devise, Save those of the Lamb's fair retinue; For redeemed and removed from earthly eyes, As firstling fruits that to God are due, To the noble Lamb they are allies, Being like to Him in mien and hue; For no lying word nor tale untrue Ever touched their tongues despite duress. Ever close that company pure shall sue That Master immaculate, and never less.'' 528 76 'My thanks may none the less you find, My Pearl', quoth I, 'though I question pose. I should not try your lofty mind, Whom Christ to bridal chamber chose. I am but dirt and dust in kind, And you a rich and radiant rose Here by this blissful bank reclined Where life's delight unfading grows. Now, Lady, your heart sincere enclose, And I would ask one thing express, And though it clown uncouth me shows, My prayer disdain not, nevertheless. 77 I nonetheless my appeal declare, If you to do this may well deign, Deny you not my piteous prayer, As you are glorious without a stain. No home in castle-wall do ye share, No mansion to meet in, no domain? Of Jerusalem you speak the royal and fair, Where David on regal throne did reign; It abides not here on hill nor plain, But in Judah is that noble plot. As under moon ye have no stain Your home should be without a spot. 78 This spotless troop of which you tell, This thronging press many-thousandfold, Ye doubtless a mighty citadel Must have your number great to hold: For jewels so lovely 'twould not be well That flock so fair should have no fold! Yet by these banks where a while I dwell I nowhere about any house behold. To gaze on this glorious stream you strolled And linger alone now, do you not? If elsewhere you have stout stronghold, Now guide me to that goodly spot!' 529 79 'That spot', that peerless maid replied, 'In Judah's land of which you spake, Is the city to which the Lamb did ride, To suffer sore there for Man's sake. The Old Jerusalem is implied, For old sin's bond He there let break. But the New, that God sent down to glide, The Apocalypse in account doth take. The Lamb that no blot ever black shall make Doth there His lovely throng allot, And as His flock all stains forsake So His mansion is unmarred by spot. 80 There are two spots. To speak of these: They both the name 'Jerusalem' share; 'The City of God' or 'Sight of Peace', These meanings only doth that bear. In the first it once the Lamb did please Our peace by His suffering to repair; In the other naught is found but peace That shall last for ever without impair. To that high city we swiftly fare As soon as our flesh is laid to rot; Ever grow shall the bliss and glory there For the host within that hath no spot.' 81 'O spotless maiden kind!' I cried To that lovely flower, 'O lead me there, To see where blissful you abide, To that goodly place let me repair!' 'God will forbid that,' she replied, 'His tower to enter you may not dare. But the Lamb hath leave to me supplied For a sigh thereof by favour rare: From without on that precinct pure to stare But foot within to venture not; In the street you have no strength to fare, Unless clean you be without a spot. 530 82 If I this spot shall to you unhide, Turn up towards this water's head, While I escort you on this side, Until your ways to a hill have led.' No longer would I then abide, But shrouded by leafy boughs did tread, Until from a hill I there espied A glimpse of that city, as forth I sped. Beyond the river below me spread Brighter than the sun with beams it shone; In the Apocalypse may its form be read, As it describes the apostle John. 83 As John the apostle it did view, I saw that city of great renown, Jerusalem royally arrayed and new, As it was drawn from heaven down. Of gold refined in fire to hue Of glittering glass was that shining town; Fair gems beneath were joined as due In courses twelve, on the base laid down That with tenoned tables twelve they crown: A single stone was each tier thereon, As well describes this wondrous town In apocalypse the apostle John. 84 These stones doth John in Writ disclose; I knew their names as he doth tell: As jewel first the jasper rose, And first at the base I saw it well, On the lowest course it greenly glows; On the second stage doth sapphire dwell; Chalcedony on the third tier shows, A flawless, pure, and pale jewel; The emerald fourth so green of shell; The sardonyx, the fifth it shone, The ruby sixth: he saw it well In the Apocalypse, the apostle John. 531 85 To them John then joined the chrysolite, The seventh gem in the ascent; The eighth the beryl clear and white; The twin-hued topaz as ninth was pent; Tenth the chrysoprase formed the flight; Eleventh was jacinth excellent; The twelfth, most trusty in every plight, The amethyst blue with purple blent. Sheer from those tiers the wall then went Of jasper like glass that glistening shone; I knew it, for thus did it present In the Apocalypse the apostle John. 86 As John described, I broad and sheer These twelve degrees saw rising there; Above the city square did rear (Its length with breadth and height compare); The streets of gold as glass all clear, The wall of jasper that gleamed like glair; With all precious stones that might there appear Adorned within the dwellings were. Of that domain each side all square Twelve thousand furlongs held then on, As in height and breadth, in length did fare, For it measured saw the aspostle John. 87 As John hath writ, I saw yet more: Each quadrate wall there had three gates, So in compass there were three times four, The portals o'erlaid with richest plates; A single pearl was every door, A pearl whose perfection ne'er abates; And each inscribed a name there bore Of Israel's children by their dates: Their times of birth each allocates, Ever first the eldest thereon is hewn. Such light every street illuminates They have need of neither sun nor moon. 532 88 Of sun nor moon they had no need, For God Himself was their sunlight; The Lamb their lantern was indeed And through Him blazed that city bright That unearthly clear did no light impede; Through wall and hall thus passed my sight. The Throne on high there might one heed, With all its rich adornment dight, As John in chosen words did write. High God Himself sat on that throne, Whence forth a river ran with light Outshining both the sun and moon. 89 Neither sun nor moon ever shone so sweet As the pouring flood from that court that flowed; Swiftly it swept through every street, And no filth nor soil nor slime it showed. No church was there the sight to greet, Nor chapel nor temple there ever abode: The Almighty was their minister meet; Refreshment the Victim Lamb bestowed. The gates ever open to every road Were never yet shut from noon to noon; There enters none to find abode Who bears any spot beneath the moon. 90 The moon therefrom may gain no might, Too spotty is she, of form too hoar; Moreover there comes never night: Why should the moon in circle soar And compare her with that peerless light That shines upon that water's shore? The planets are in too poor a plight, Yea, the sun himself too pale and frore. On shining trees where those waters pour Twelve fruits of life there ripen soon; Twelve times a year they bear a store, And renew them anew in every moon. 533 91 Such marvels as neath the moon upraised A fleshly heart could not endure I saw, who on that castle gazed; Such wonders did its castle gazed; I stood there still as quail all dazed; Its wondrous form did me allure, That rest nor toil I felt, amazed, And ravished by that radiance pure. For with conscience clear I you assure, If man embodied had gained that boon, Though sages all essayed his cure, His life had been lost beneath the moon. 92 As doth the moon in might arise, Ere down must daylight leave the air, So, suddenly, in a wondrous wise, Of procession long I was aware. Unheralded to my surprise That city of royal renown so fair Was with virgins filled in the very guise Of my blissful one with crown on hair. All crowned in manner like they were, In pearls appointed, and weeds of white, and bound on breast did each one bear The blissful pearl with great delight. 93 With great delight in line they strolled On golden ways that gleamed like glass; A hundred thousands were there, I hold, And all to match their livery was; The gladdest face could none have told. the Lamb before did proudly pass With seven horns of clear red gold; As pearls of price His raimant was. To the Throne now drawn they pacing pass: No crowding, though great their host in white, But gentle as modest maids at Mass, So lead they on with great delight. 534 94 The delight too great were to recall That at His coming forth did swell. When He approached those elders all On their faces at His feet they fell; There summoned hosts angelical An incense cast of sweetest smell: New glory and joy then forth did fall, All sang to praise that fair Jewel. The strain could strike through earth to hell That the Virtues of heaven in joy endite. With His host to laud the Lamb as well In deed I found a great delight. 95 Delight the Lamb to behold with eyes Then moved my mind with wonder more: The best was He, blithest, most dear to prize Of whom I e'er heard tales of yore; So wondrous white was all His guise, So noble Himself He so meekly bore. But by his heart a wound my eyes Saw wide and wet; the fleece it tore, From His white side His blood did pour. Alas! thought I, who did that spite? His breast should have burned with anguish sore, Ere in that deed one took delight. 96 The Lamb's delight to doubt, I ween, None wished; though wound He sore displayed, In His face no sign thereof was seen, In His glance such glorious gladness played. I marked among His host serene, How life in full on each was laid-Then saw I there my little queen That I thought stood by me in the glade! Lord! great was the merriment she made, Among her peers who was so white. That vision made me think to wade For love-longing in great delight. 535 97 Delight there pierced my eye and ear, In my mortal mind a madness reigned; When I saw her beauty I would be near, Though beyond the stream she was retained. I thought that naught could interfere, Could strike me back to halt constrained, From plunge in stream would none me steer, Though I died ere I swam o'er what remained. But as wild in the water to start I strained, On my intent did quaking seize; From that aim recalled I was detained: It was not as my Prince did please. 98 It pleased Him not that I leapt o'er Those marvellous bounds my madness swayed. Though headlong haste me heedless bore, Yet swift arrest was on me made, For right as I rushed then to the shore That fury made my dream to fade. I woke in that garden as before, My head upon that mound was laid Where once to earth my pearl had strayed. I stretched, and fell in great unease, And sighing to myself I prayed: 'Now all be as that Prince may please.' 99 It pleased me ill outcast to be So suddenly from that region fair Where living beauty I could see. A swoon of longing smote me there, And I cried aloud then piteously: 'O Pearl, renowned beyond compare! How dear was all that you said to me, That vision true while I did share. If it be true and sooth to swear That in garland gay you are set at ease, Then happy I, though chained in care, That you that Prince indeed do please.' 536 100 To please that Prince had I always bent, Desired no more than was my share, And loyally been obedient, As the Pearl me prayed so debonair, I before God's face might have been sent, In his mysteries further maybe to fare. But with fortune no man is content That rightly he may claim and bear; So robbed of realms immortally fair Too soon my joy did sorrow seize. Lord! mad are they who against Thee dare Or purpose what Thee may displease! 101 To please that Prince, or be pardon shown, May Christian good with ease design; For day and night I have Him known A God, a Lord, a Friend divine. This chance I met on mound where prone In grief for my pearl I would repine; With Christ's sweet blessing and mine own I then to God it did resign. May He that in form of bread and wine By priest upheld each day one sees, Us inmates of His house divine Make precious pearls Himself to please. Amen Amen ~ Anonymous Olde English,

883:BOOK THE SECOND The Story of Phaeton The Sun's bright palace, on high columns rais'd, With burnish'd gold and flaming jewels blaz'd; The folding gates diffus'd a silver light, And with a milder gleam refresh'd the sight; Of polish'd iv'ry was the cov'ring wrought: The matter vied not with the sculptor's thought, For in the portal was display'd on high (The work of Vulcan) a fictitious sky; A waving sea th' inferiour Earth embrac'd, And Gods and Goddesses the waters grac'd. Aegeon here a mighty whale bestrode; Triton, and Proteus (the deceiving God) With Doris here were carv'd, and all her train, Some loosely swimming in the figur'd main, While some on rocks their dropping hair divide, And some on fishes through the waters glide: Tho' various features did the sisters grace, A sister's likeness was in ev'ry face. On Earth a diff'rent landskip courts the eyes, Men, towns, and beasts in distant prospects rise, And nymphs, and streams, and woods, and rural deities. O'er all, the Heav'n's refulgent image shines; On either gate were six engraven signs. Here Phaeton still gaining on th' ascent, To his suspected father's palace went, 'Till pressing forward through the bright abode, He saw at distance the illustrious God: He saw at distance, or the dazling light Had flash'd too strongly on his aking sight. The God sits high, exalted on a throne Of blazing gems, with purple garments on; The Hours, in order rang'd on either hand, And Days, and Months, and Years, and Ages stand. Here Spring appears with flow'ry chaplets bound; Here Summer in her wheaten garl and crown'd; Here Autumn the rich trodden grapes besmear; And hoary Winter shivers in the reer. Phoebus beheld the youth from off his throne; That eye, which looks on all, was fix'd in one. He saw the boy's confusion in his face, Surpriz'd at all the wonders of the place; And cries aloud, "What wants my son? for know My son thou art, and I must call thee so." "Light of the world," the trembling youth replies, "Illustrious parent! since you don't despise The parent's name, some certain token give, That I may Clymene's proud boast believe, Nor longer under false reproaches grieve." The tender sire was touch'd with what he said, And flung the blaze of glories from his head, And bid the youth advance: "My son," said he, "Come to thy father's arms! for Clymene Has told thee true; a parent's name I own, And deem thee worthy to be called my son. As a sure proof, make some request, and I, Whate'er it be, with that request comply; By Styx I swear, whose waves are hid in night, And roul impervious to my piercing sight." The youth transported, asks, without delay, To guide the sun's bright chariot for a day. The God repented of the oath he took, For anguish thrice his radiant head he shook; "My son," says he, "some other proof require, Rash was my promise, rash is thy desire. I'd fain deny this wish, which thou hast made, Or, what I can't deny, wou'd fain disswade. Too vast and hazardous the task appears, Nor suited to thy strength, nor to thy years. Thy lot is mortal, but thy wishes fly Beyond the province of mortality: There is not one of all the Gods that dares (However skill'd in other great affairs) To mount the burning axle-tree, but I; Not Jove himself, the ruler of the sky, That hurles the three-fork'd thunder from above, Dares try his strength: yet who so strong as Jove? The steeds climb up the first ascent with pain, And when the middle firmament they gain, If downward from the Heav'ns my head I bow, And see the Earth and Ocean hang below, Ev'n I am seiz'd with horror and affright, And my own heart misgives me at the sight. A mighty downfal steeps the ev'ning stage, And steddy reins must curb the horses' rage. Tethys herself has fear'd to see me driv'n Down headlong from the precipice of Heav'n. Besides, consider what impetuous force Turns stars and planets in a diff'rent course. I steer against their motions; nor am I Born back by all the current of the sky. But how cou'd you resist the orbs that roul In adverse whirls, and stem the rapid pole? But you perhaps may hope for pleasing woods, And stately dooms, and cities fill'd with Gods; While through a thousand snares your progress lies, Where forms of starry monsters stock the skies: For, shou'd you hit the doubtful way aright, The bull with stooping horns stands opposite; Next him the bright Haemonian bow is strung, And next, the lion's grinning visage hung: The scorpion's claws, here clasp a wide extent; And here the crab's in lesser clasps are bent. Nor wou'd you find it easie to compose The mettled steeds, when from their nostrils flows The scorching fire, that in their entrails glows. Ev'n I their head-strong fury scarce restrain, When they grow warm and restif to the rein. Let not my son a fatal gift require, But, O! in time, recall your rash desire; You ask a gift that may your parent tell, Let these my fears your parentage reveal; And learn a father from a father's care: Look on my face; or if my heart lay bare, Cou'd you but look, you'd read the father there. Chuse out a gift from seas, or Earth, or skies, For open to your wish all Nature lies, Only decline this one unequal task, For 'tis a mischief, not a gift, you ask. You ask a real mischief, Phaeton: Nay hang not thus about my neck, my son: I grant your wish, and Styx has heard my voice, Chuse what you will, but make a wiser choice." Thus did the God th' unwary youth advise; But he still longs to travel through the skies. When the fond father (for in vain he pleads) At length to the Vulcanian Chariot leads. A golden axle did the work uphold, Gold was the beam, the wheels were orb'd with gold. The spokes in rows of silver pleas'd the sight, The seat with party-colour'd gems was bright; Apollo shin'd amid the glare of light. The youth with secret joy the work surveys, When now the moon disclos'd her purple rays; The stars were fled, for Lucifer had chased The stars away, and fled himself at last. Soon as the father saw the rosy morn, And the moon shining with a blunter horn, He bid the nimble Hours, without delay, Bring forth the steeds; the nimble Hours obey: From their full racks the gen'rous steeds retire, Dropping ambrosial foams, and snorting fire. Still anxious for his son, the God of day, To make him proof against the burning ray, His temples with celestial ointment wet, Of sov'reign virtue to repel the heat; Then fix'd the beamy circle on his head, And fetch'd a deep foreboding sigh, and said, "Take this at least, this last advice, my son, Keep a stiff rein, and move but gently on: The coursers of themselves will run too fast, Your art must be to moderate their haste. Drive 'em not on directly through the skies, But where the Zodiac's winding circle lies, Along the midmost Zone; but sally forth Nor to the distant south, nor stormy north. The horses' hoofs a beaten track will show, But neither mount too high, nor sink too low. That no new fires, or Heav'n or Earth infest; Keep the mid way, the middle way is best. Nor, where in radiant folds the serpent twines, Direct your course, nor where the altar shines. Shun both extreams; the rest let Fortune guide, And better for thee than thy self provide! See, while I speak, the shades disperse away, Aurora gives the promise of a day; I'm call'd, nor can I make a longer stay. Snatch up the reins; or still th' attempt forsake, And not my chariot, but my counsel, take, While yet securely on the Earth you stand; Nor touch the horses with too rash a hand. Let me alone to light the world, while you Enjoy those beams which you may safely view." He spoke in vain; the youth with active heat And sprightly vigour vaults into the seat; And joys to hold the reins, and fondly gives Those thanks his father with remorse receives. Mean-while the restless horses neigh'd aloud, Breathing out fire, and pawing where they stood. Tethys, not knowing what had past, gave way, And all the waste of Heav'n before 'em lay. They spring together out, and swiftly bear The flying youth thro' clouds and yielding air; With wingy speed outstrip the eastern wind, And leave the breezes of the morn behind. The youth was light, nor cou'd he fill the seat, Or poise the chariot with its wonted weight: But as at sea th' unballass'd vessel rides, Cast to and fro, the sport of winds and tides; So in the bounding chariot toss'd on high, The youth is hurry'd headlong through the sky. Soon as the steeds perceive it, they forsake Their stated course, and leave the beaten track. The youth was in a maze, nor did he know Which way to turn the reins, or where to go; Nor wou'd the horses, had he known, obey. Then the sev'n stars first felt Apollo's ray, And wish'd to dip in the forbidden sea. The folded serpent next the frozen pole, Stiff and benum'd before, began to rowle, And raged with inward heat, and threaten'd war, And shot a redder light from ev'ry star; Nay, and 'tis said Bootes too, that fain Thou woud'st have fled, tho' cumber'd with thy wane. Th' unhappy youth then, bending down his head, Saw Earth and Ocean far beneath him spread. His colour chang'd, he startled at the sight, And his eyes darken'd by too great a light. Now cou'd he wish the fiery steeds untry'd, His birth obscure, and his request deny'd: Now wou'd he Merops for his father own, And quit his boasted kindred to the sun. So fares the pilot, when his ship is tost In troubled seas, and all its steerage lost, He gives her to the winds, and in despair Seeks his last refuge in the Gods and pray'r. What cou'd he do? his eyes, if backward cast, Find a long path he had already past; If forward, still a longer path they find: Both he compares, and measures in his mind; And sometimes casts an eye upon the east, And sometimes looks on the forbidden west, The horses' names he knew not in the fright, Nor wou'd he loose the reins, nor cou'd he hold 'em right. Now all the horrors of the Heav'ns he spies, And monstrous shadows of prodigious size, That, deck'd with stars, lye scatter'd o'er the skies. There is a place above, where Scorpio bent In tail and arms surrounds a vast extent; In a wide circuit of the Heav'ns he shines, And fills the space of two coelestial signs. Soon as the youth beheld him vex'd with heat Brandish his sting, and in his poison sweat, Half dead with sudden fear he dropt the reins; The horses felt 'em loose upon their mains, And, flying out through all the plains above, Ran uncontroul'd where-e're their fury drove; Rush'd on the stars, and through a pathless way Of unknown regions hurry'd on the day. And now above, and now below they flew, And near the Earth the burning chariot drew. The clouds disperse in fumes, the wond'ring Moon Beholds her brother's steeds beneath her own; The highlands smoak, cleft by the piercing rays, Or, clad with woods, in their own fewel blaze. Next o'er the plains, where ripen'd harvests grow, The running conflagration spreads below. But these are trivial ills: whole cities burn, And peopled kingdoms into ashes turn. The mountains kindle as the car draws near, Athos and Tmolus red with fires appear; Oeagrian Haemus (then a single name) And virgin Helicon increase the flame; Taurus and Oete glare amid the sky, And Ida, spight of all her fountains, dry. Eryx and Othrys, and Cithaeron, glow, And Rhodope, no longer cloath'd in snow; High Pindus, Mimas, and Parnassus, sweat, And Aetna rages with redoubled heat. Ev'n Scythia, through her hoary regions warm'd, In vain with all her native frost was arm'd. Cover'd with flames the tow'ring Appennine, And Caucasus, and proud Olympus, shine; And, where the long-extended Alpes aspire, Now stands a huge continu'd range of fire. Th' astonisht youth, where-e'er his eyes cou'd turn, Beheld the universe around him burn: The world was in a blaze; nor cou'd he bear The sultry vapours and the scorching air, Which from below, as from a furnace, flow'd; And now the axle-tree beneath him glow'd: Lost in the whirling clouds that round him broke, And white with ashes, hov'ring in the smoke. He flew where-e'er the horses drove, nor knew Whither the horses drove, or where he flew. 'Twas then, they say, the swarthy Moor begun To change his hue, and blacken in the sun. Then Libya first, of all her moisture drain'd, Became a barren waste, a wild of sand. The water-nymphs lament their empty urns, Boeotia, robb's of silve Dirce, mourns, Corinth Pyrene's wasted spring bewails, And Argos grieves whilst Amymone fails. The floods are drain'd from ev'ry distant coast, Ev'n Tanais, tho' fix'd in ice, was lost. Enrag'd Caicus and Lycormas roar, And Xanthus, fated to be burnt once more. The fam'd Maeander, that unweary'd strays Through mazy windings, smoaks in ev'ry maze. From his lov'd Babylon Euphrates flies; The big-swoln Ganges and the Danube rise In thick'ning fumes, and darken half the skies. In flames Ismenos and the Phasis roul'd, And Tagus floating in his melted gold. The swans, that on Cayster often try'd Their tuneful songs, now sung their last and dy'd. The frighted Nile ran off, and under ground Conceal'd his head, nor can it yet be found: His sev'n divided currents all are dry, And where they row'ld, sev'n gaping trenches lye: No more the Rhine or Rhone their course maintain, Nor Tiber, of his promis'd empire vain. The ground, deep-cleft, admits the dazling ray, And startles Pluto with the flash of day. The seas shrink in, and to the sight disclose Wide naked plains, where once their billows rose; Their rocks are all discover'd, and increase The number of the scatter'd Cyclades. The fish in sholes about the bottom creep, Nor longer dares the crooked dolphin leap Gasping for breath, th' unshapen Phocae die, And on the boiling wave extended lye. Nereus, and Doris with her virgin train, Seek out the last recesses of the main; Beneath unfathomable depths they faint, And secret in their gloomy caverns pant. Stern Neptune thrice above the waves upheld His face, and thrice was by the flames repell'd. The Earth at length, on ev'ry side embrac'd With scalding seas that floated round her waste, When now she felt the springs and rivers come, And crowd within the hollow of her womb, Up-lifted to the Heav'ns her blasted head, And clapt her hand upon her brows, and said (But first, impatient of the sultry heat, Sunk deeper down, and sought a cooler seat): "If you, great king of Gods, my death approve, And I deserve it, let me die by Jove; If I must perish by the force of fire, Let me transfix'd with thunder-bolts expire. See, whilst I speak, my breath the vapours choak (For now her face lay wrapt in clouds of smoak), See my singe'd hair, behold my faded eye, And wither'd face, where heaps of cinders lye! And does the plow for this my body tear? This the reward for all the fruits I bear, Tortur'd with rakes, and harrass'd all the year? That herbs for cattle daily I renew, And food for Man, and frankincense for you? But grant me guilty; what has Neptune done? Why are his waters boiling in the sun? The wavy empire, which by lot was giv'n, Why does it waste, and further shrink from Heav'n? If I nor he your pity can provoke, See your own Heav'ns, the Heav'ns begin to smoke! Shou'd once the sparkles catch those bright abodes, Destruction seizes on the Heav'ns and Gods; Atlas becomes unequal to his freight, And almost faints beneath the glowing weight. If Heav'n, and Earth, and sea, together burn, All must again into their chaos turn. Apply some speedy cure, prevent our fate, And succour Nature, ere it be too late." She cea'sd, for choak'd with vapours round her spread, Down to the deepest shades she sunk her head. Jove call'd to witness ev'ry Pow'r above, And ev'n the God, whose son the chariot drove, That what he acts he is compell'd to do, Or universal ruin must ensue. Strait he ascends the high aetherial throne, From whence he us'd to dart his thunder down, From whence his show'rs and storms he us'd to pour, But now cou'd meet with neither storm nor show'r. Then, aiming at the youth, with lifted hand, Full at his head he hurl'd the forky brand, In dreadful thund'rings. Thus th' almighty sire Suppress'd the raging of the fires with fire. At once from life and from the chariot driv'n, Th' ambitious boy fell thunder-struck from Heav'n. The horses started with a sudden bound, And flung the reins and chariot to the ground: The studded harness from their necks they broke, Here fell a wheel, and here a silver spoke, Here were the beam and axle torn away; And, scatter'd o'er the Earth, the shining fragments lay. The breathless Phaeton, with flaming hair, Shot from the chariot, like a falling star, That in a summer's ev'ning from the top Of Heav'n drops down, or seems at least to drop; 'Till on the Po his blasted corps was hurl'd, Far from his country, in the western world. Phaeton's Sisters transform'd into Trees The Latian nymphs came round him, and, amaz'd, On the dead youth, transfix'd with thunder, gaz'd; And, whilst yet smoaking from the bolt he lay, His shatter'd body to a tomb convey, And o'er the tomb an epitaph devise: "Here he, who drove the sun's bright chariot, lies; His father's fiery steeds he cou'd not guide, But in the glorious enterprize he dy'd." Apollo hid his face, and pin'd for grief, And, if the story may deserve belief, The space of one whole day is said to run, From morn to wonted ev'n, without a sun: The burning ruins, with a fainter ray, Supply the sun, and counterfeit a day, A day, that still did Nature's face disclose: This comfort from the mighty mischief rose. But Clymene, enrag'd with grief, laments, And as her grief inspires, her passion vents: Wild for her son, and frantick in her woes, With hair dishevel'd round the world she goes, To seek where-e'er his body might be cast; 'Till, on the borders of the Po, at last The name inscrib'd on the new tomb appears. The dear dear name she bathes in flowing tears, Hangs o'er the tomb, unable to depart, And hugs the marble to her throbbing heart. Her daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn (A fruitless tri bute to their brother's urn), And beat their naked bosoms, and complain, And call aloud for Phaeton in vain: All the long night their mournful watch they keep, And all the day stand round the tomb, and weep. Four times, revolving, the full moon return'd; So long the mother and the daughters mourn'd: When now the eldest, Phaethusa, strove To rest her weary limbs, but could not move; Lampetia wou'd have help'd her, but she found Her self with-held, and rooted to the ground: A third in wild affliction, as she grieves, Wou'd rend her hair, but fills her hands with leaves; One sees her thighs transform'd, another views Her arms shot out, and branching into boughs. And now their legs, and breasts, and bodies stood Crusted with bark, and hard'ning into wood; But still above were female heads display'd, And mouths, that call'd the mother to their aid. What cou'd, alas! the weeping mother do? From this to that with eager haste she flew, And kiss'd her sprouting daughters as they grew. She tears the bark that to each body cleaves, And from their verdant fingers strips the leaves: The blood came trickling, where she tore away The leaves and bark: the maids were heard to say, "Forbear, mistaken parent, oh! forbear; A wounded daughter in each tree you tear; Farewell for ever." Here the bark encreas'd, Clos'd on their faces, and their words suppress'd. The new-made trees in tears of amber run, Which, harden'd into value by the sun, Distill for ever on the streams below: The limpid streams their radiant treasure show, Mixt in the sand; whence the rich drops convey'd Shine in the dress of the bright Latian maid. The Transformation of Cycnus into a Swan Cycnus beheld the nymphs transform'd, ally'd To their dead brother on the mortal side, In friendship and affection nearer bound; He left the cities and the realms he own'd, Thro' pathless fields and lonely shores to range, And woods made thicker by the sisters' change. Whilst here, within the dismal gloom, alone, The melancholy monarch made his moan, His voice was lessen'd, as he try'd to speak, And issu'd through a long-extended neck; His hair transforms to down, his fingers meet In skinny films, and shape his oary feet; From both his sides the wings and feathers break; And from his mouth proceeds a blunted beak: All Cycnus now into a Swan was turn'd, Who, still remembring how his kinsman burn'd, To solitary pools and lakes retires, And loves the waters as oppos'd to fires. Mean-while Apollo in a gloomy shade (The native lustre of his brows decay'd) Indulging sorrow, sickens at the sight Of his own sun-shine, and abhors the light; The hidden griefs, that in his bosom rise, Sadden his looks and over-cast his eyes, As when some dusky orb obstructs his ray, And sullies in a dim eclipse the day. Now secretly with inward griefs he pin'd, Now warm resentments to his griefs he joyn'd, And now renounc'd his office to mankind. "Ere since the birth of time," said he, "I've born A long ungrateful toil, without return; Let now some other manage, if he dare, The fiery steeds, and mount the burning carr; Or, if none else, let Jove his fortune try, And learn to lay his murd'ring thunder by; Then will he own, perhaps, but own too late, My son deserv'd not so severe a fate." The Gods stand round him, as he mourns, and pray He would resume the conduct of the day, Nor let the world be lost in endless night: Jove too himself descending from his height, Excuses what had happen'd, and intreats, Majestically mixing pray'rs and threats. Prevail'd upon at length, again he took The harness'd steeds, that still with horror shook, And plies 'em with the lash, and whips 'em on, And, as he whips, upbraids 'em with his son. The Story of Calisto The day was settled in its course; and Jove Walk'd the wide circuit of the Heavens above, To search if any cracks or flaws were made; But all was safe: the Earth he then survey'd, And cast an eye on ev'ry diff'rent coast, And ev'ry land; but on Arcadia most. Her fields he cloath'd, and chear'd her blasted face With running fountains, and with springing grass. No tracks of Heav'n's destructive fire remain, The fields and woods revive, and Nature smiles again. But as the God walk'd to and fro the Earth, And rais'd the plants, and gave the spring its birth, By chance a fair Arcadian nymph he view'd, And felt the lovely charmer in his blood. The nymph nor spun, nor dress'd with artful pride, Her vest was gather'd up, her hair was ty'd; Now in her hand a slender spear she bore, Now a light quiver on her shoulders wore; To chaste Diana from her youth inclin'd, The sprightly warriors of the wood she joyn'd. Diana too the gentle huntress lov'd, Nor was there one of all the nymphs that rov'd O'er Maenalus, amid the maiden throng, More favour'd once; but favour lasts not long. The sun now shone in all its strength, and drove The heated virgin panting to a grove; The grove around a grateful shadow cast: She dropt her arrows, and her bow unbrac'd; She flung her self on the cool grassy bed; And on the painted quiver rais'd her head, Jove saw the charming huntress unprepar'd, Stretch'd on the verdant turf, without a guard. "Here I am safe," he cries, "from Juno's eye; Or shou'd my jealous queen the theft descry, Yet wou'd I venture on a theft like this, And stand her rage for such, for such a bliss!" Diana's shape and habit strait he took, Soften'd his brows, and smooth'd his awful look, And mildly in a female accent spoke. "How fares my girl? How went the morning chase?" To whom the virgin, starting from the grass, "All hail, bright deity, whom I prefer To Jove himself, tho' Jove himself were here." The God was nearer than she thought, and heard Well-pleas'd himself before himself preferr'd. He then salutes her with a warm embrace; And, e're she half had told the morning chase, With love enflam'd, and eager on his bliss, Smother'd her words, and stop'd her with a kiss; His kisses with unwonted ardour glow'd, Nor cou'd Diana's shape conceal the God. The virgin did whate'er a virgin cou'd (Sure Juno must have pardon'd, had she view'd); With all her might against his force she strove; But how can mortal maids contend with Jove? Possest at length of what his heart desir'd, Back to his Heav'ns, th' exulting God retir'd. The lovely huntress, rising from the grass, With down-cast eyes, and with a blushing face, By shame confounded, and by fear dismay'd, Flew from the covert of the guilty shade, And almost, in the tumult of her mind, Left her forgotten bow and shafts behind. But now Diana, with a sprightly train Of quiver'd virgins, bounding o'er the plain, Call'd to the nymph; the nymph began to fear A second fraud, a Jove disguis'd in her; But, when she saw the sister nymphs, suppress'd Her rising fears, and mingled with the rest. How in the look does conscious guilt appear! Slowly she mov'd, and loiter'd in the rear; Nor lightly tripp'd, nor by the Goddess ran, As once she us'd, the foremost of the train. Her looks were flush'd, and sullen was her mien, That sure the virgin Goddess (had she been Aught but a virgin) must the guilt have seen. 'Tis said the nymphs saw all, and guess'd aright: And now the moon had nine times lost her light, When Dian, fainting in the mid-day beams, Found a cool covert, and refreshing streams That in soft murmurs through the forest flow'd, And a smooth bed of shining gravel show'd. A covert so obscure, and streams so clear, The Goddess prais'd: "And now no spies are near Let's strip, my gentle maids, and wash," she cries. Pleas'd with the motion, every maid complies; Only the blushing huntress stood confus'd, And form'd delays, and her delays excus'd; In vain excus'd: her fellows round her press'd, And the reluctant nymph by force undress'd, The naked huntress all her shame reveal'd, In vain her hands the pregnant womb conceal'd; "Begone!" the Goddess cries with stern disdain, "Begone! nor dare the hallow'd stream to stain": She fled, for ever banish'd from the train. This Juno heard, who long had watch'd her time To punish the detested rival's crime; The time was come; for, to enrage her more, A lovely boy the teeming rival bore. The Goddess cast a furious look, and cry'd, "It is enough! I'm fully satisfy'd! This boy shall stand a living mark, to prove My husband's baseness and the strumpet's love: But vengeance shall awake: those guilty charms That drew the Thunderer from Juno's arms, No longer shall their wonted force retain, Nor please the God, nor make the mortal vain." This said, her hand within her hair she wound, Swung her to Earth, and drag'd her on the ground: The prostrate wretch lifts up her arms in pray'r; Her arms grow shaggy, and deform'd with hair, Her nails are sharpen'd into pointed claws, Her hands bear half her weight, and turn to paws; Her lips, that once cou'd tempt a God, begin To grow distorted in an ugly grin. And, lest the supplicating brute might reach The ears of Jove, she was depriv'd of speech: Her surly voice thro' a hoarse passage came In savage sounds: her mind was still the same, The furry monster fix'd her eyes above, And heav'd her new unwieldy paws to Jove, And beg'd his aid with inward groans; and tho' She could not call him false, she thought him so. How did she fear to lodge in woods alone, And haunt the fields and meadows, once her own! How often wou'd the deep-mouth'd dogs pursue, Whilst from her hounds the frighted huntress flew! How did she fear her fellow-brutes, and shun The shaggy bear, tho' now her self was one! How from the sight of rugged wolves retire, Although the grim Lycaon was her sire! But now her son had fifteen summers told, Fierce at the chase, and in the forest bold; When, as he beat the woods in quest of prey, He chanc'd to rouze his mother where she lay. She knew her son, and kept him in her sight, And fondly gaz'd: the boy was in a fright, And aim'd a pointed arrow at her breast, And would have slain his mother in the beast; But Jove forbad, and snatch'd 'em through the air In whirlwinds up to Heav'n, and fix'd 'em there! Where the new constellations nightly rise, And add a lustre to the northern skies. When Juno saw the rival in her height, Spangled with stars, and circled round with light, She sought old Ocean in his deep abodes, And Tethys, both rever'd among the Gods. They ask what brings her there: "Ne'er ask," says she, "What brings me here, Heav'n is no place for me. You'll see, when night has cover'd all things o'er, Jove's starry bastard and triumphant whore Usurp the Heav'ns; you'll see 'em proudly rowle And who shall now on Juno's altars wait, When those she hates grow greater by her hate? I on the nymph a brutal form impress'd, Jove to a goddess has transform'd the beast; This, this was all my weak revenge could do: But let the God his chaste amours pursue, And, as he acted after Io's rape, Restore th' adultress to her former shape; Then may he cast his Juno off, and lead The great Lycaon's offspring to his bed. But you, ye venerable Pow'rs, be kind, And, if my wrongs a due resentment find, Receive not in your waves their setting beams, Nor let the glaring strumpet taint your streams." The Goddess ended, and her wish was giv'n. Back she return'd in triumph up to Heav'n; Her gawdy peacocks drew her through the skies. Their tails were spotted with a thousand eyes; The eyes of Argus on their tails were rang'd, At the same time the raven's colour chang'd. The Story of Coronis, and Birth of Aesculapius The raven once in snowy plumes was drest, White as the whitest dove's unsully'd breast, Fair as the guardian of the Capitol, Soft as the swan; a large and lovely fowl; His tongue, his prating tongue had chang'd him quite To sooty blackness, from the purest white. The story of his change shall here be told; In Thessaly there liv'd a nymph of old, Coronis nam'd; a peerless maid she shin'd, Confest the fairest of the fairer kind. Apollo lov'd her, 'till her guilt he knew, While true she was, or whilst he thought her true. But his own bird the raven chanc'd to find The false one with a secret rival joyn'd. Coronis begg'd him to suppress the tale, But could not with repeated pray'rs prevail. His milk-white pinions to the God he ply'd; The busy daw flew with him, side by side, And by a thousand teizing questions drew Th' important secret from him as they flew. The daw gave honest counsel, tho' despis'd, And, tedious in her tattle, thus advis'd: "Stay, silly bird, th' ill-natur'd task refuse, Nor be the bearer of unwelcome news. Be warn'd by my example: you discern What now I am, and what I was shall learn. My foolish honesty was all my crime; Then hear my story. Once upon a time, The two-shap'd Ericthonius had his birth (Without a mother) from the teeming Earth; Minerva nurs'd him, and the infant laid Within a chest, of twining osiers made. The daughters of king Cecrops undertook To guard the chest, commanded not to look On what was hid within. I stood to see The charge obey'd, perch'd on a neighb'ring tree. The sisters Pandrosos and Herse keep The strict command; Aglauros needs would peep, And saw the monstrous infant, in a fright, And call'd her sisters to the hideous sight: A boy's soft shape did to the waste prevail, But the boy ended in a dragon's tail. I told the stern Minerva all that pass'd; But for my pains, discarded and disgrac'd, The frowning Goddess drove me from her sight, And for her fav'rite chose the bird of night. Be then no tell-tale; for I think my wrong Enough to teach a bird to hold her tongue. But you, perhaps, may think I was remov'd, As never by the heav'nly maid belov'd: But I was lov'd; ask Pallas if I lye; Tho' Pallas hate me now, she won't deny: For I, whom in a feather'd shape you view, Was once a maid (by Heav'n the story's true) A blooming maid, and a king's daughter too. A crowd of lovers own'd my beauty's charms; My beauty was the cause of all my harms; Neptune, as on his shores I wont to rove, Observ'd me in my walks, and fell in love. He made his courtship, he confess'd his pain, And offer'd force, when all his arts were vain; Swift he pursu'd: I ran along the strand, 'Till, spent and weary'd on the sinking sand, I shriek'd aloud, with cries I fill'd the air To Gods and men; nor God nor man was there: A virgin Goddess heard a virgin's pray'r. For, as my arms I lifted to the skies, I saw black feathers from my fingers rise; I strove to fling my garment on the ground; My garment turn'd to plumes, and girt me round: My hands to beat my naked bosom try; Nor naked bosom now nor hands had I: Lightly I tript, nor weary as before Sunk in the sand, but skim'd along the shore; 'Till, rising on my wings, I was preferr'd To be the chaste Minerva's virgin bird: Preferr'd in vain! I am now in disgrace: Nyctimene the owl enjoys my place. On her incestuous life I need not dwell (In Lesbos still the horrid tale they tell), And of her dire amours you must have heard, For which she now does penance in a bird, That conscious of her shame, avoids the light, And loves the gloomy cov'ring of the night; The birds, where-e'er she flutters, scare away The hooting wretch, and drive her from the day." The raven, urg'd by such impertinence, Grew passionate, it seems, and took offence, And curst the harmless daw; the daw withdrew: The raven to her injur'd patron flew, And found him out, and told the fatal truth Of false Coronis and the favour'd youth. The God was wroth, the colour left his look, The wreath his head, the harp his hand forsook: His silver bow and feather'd shafts he took, And lodg'd an arrow in the tender breast, That had so often to his own been prest. Down fell the wounded nymph, and sadly groan'd, And pull'd his arrow reeking from the wound; And weltring in her blood, thus faintly cry'd, "Ah cruel God! tho' I have justly dy'd, What has, alas! my unborn infant done, That he should fall, and two expire in one?" This said, in agonies she fetch'd her breath. The God dissolves in pity at her death; He hates the bird that made her falshood known, And hates himself for what himself had done; The feather'd shaft, that sent her to the Fates, And his own hand, that sent the shaft, he hates. Fain would he heal the wound, and ease her pain, And tries the compass of his art in vain. Soon as he saw the lovely nymph expire, The pile made ready, and the kindling fire. With sighs and groans her obsequies he kept, And, if a God could weep, the God had wept. Her corps he kiss'd, and heav'nly incense brought, And solemniz'd the death himself had wrought. But lest his offspring should her fate partake, Spight of th' immortal mixture in his make, He ript her womb, and set the child at large, And gave him to the centaur Chiron's charge: Then in his fury black'd the raven o'er, And bid him prate in his white plumes no more. Ocyrrhoe transform'd into a Mare Old Chiron took the babe with secret joy, Proud of the charge of the celestial boy. His daughter too, whom on the sandy shore The nymph Charicle to the centaur bore, With hair dishevel'd on her shoulders, came To see the child, Ocyrrhoe was her name; She knew her father's arts, and could rehearse The depths of prophecy in sounding verse. Once, as the sacred infant she survey'd, The God was kindled in the raving maid, And thus she utter'd her prophetick tale: "Hail, great physician of the world, all-hail; Hail, mighty infant, who in years to come Shalt heal the nations, and defraud the tomb; Swift be thy growth! thy triumphs unconfin'd! Make kingdoms thicker, and increase mankind. Thy daring art shall animate the dead, And draw the thunder on thy guilty head: Then shalt thou dye, but from the dark abode Rise up victorious, and be twice a God. And thou, my sire, not destin'd by thy birth To turn to dust, and mix with common earth, How wilt thou toss, and rave, and long to dye, And quit thy claim to immortality; When thou shalt feel, enrag'd with inward pains, The Hydra's venom rankling in thy veins? The Gods, in pity, shall contract thy date, And give thee over to the pow'r of Fate." Thus entring into destiny, the maid The secrets of offended Jove betray'd: More had she still to say; but now appears Oppress'd with sobs and sighs, and drown'd in tears. "My voice," says she, "is gone, my language fails; Through ev'ry limb my kindred shape prevails: Why did the God this fatal gift impart, And with prophetick raptures swell my heart! What new desires are these? I long to pace O'er flow'ry meadows, and to feed on grass; I hasten to a brute, a maid no more; But why, alas! am I transform'd all o'er? My sire does half a human shape retain, And in his upper parts preserve the man." Her tongue no more distinct complaints affords, But in shrill accents and mis-shapen words Pours forth such hideous wailings, as declare The human form confounded in the mare: 'Till by degrees accomplish'd in the beast, She neigh'd outright, and all the steed exprest. Her stooping body on her hands is born, Her hands are turn'd to hoofs, and shod in horn, Her yellow tresses ruffle in a mane, And in a flowing tail she frisks her train, The mare was finish'd in her voice and look, And a new name from the new figure took. The Transformation of Battus to a Touch stone Sore wept the centuar, and to Phoebus pray'd; But how could Phoebus give the centaur aid? Degraded of his pow'r by angry Jove, In Elis then a herd of beeves he drove; And wielded in his hand a staff of oak, And o'er his shoulders threw the shepherd's cloak; On sev'n compacted reeds he us'd to play, And on his rural pipe to waste the day. As once attentive to his pipe he play'd, The crafty Hermes from the God convey'd A drove, that sep'rate from their fellows stray'd. The theft an old insidious peasant view'd (They call'd him Battus in the neighbourhood), Hir'd by a vealthy Pylian prince to feed His fav'rite mares, and watch the gen'rous breed. The thievish God suspected him, and took The hind aside, and thus in whispers spoke: "Discover not the theft, whoe'er thou be, And take that milk-white heifer for thy fee." "Go, stranger," cries the clown, "securely on, That stone shall sooner tell," and show'd a stone. The God withdrew, but strait return'd again, In speech and habit like a country swain; And cries out, "Neighbour, hast thou seen a stray Of bullocks and of heifers pass this way? In the recov'ry of my cattle join, A bullock and a heifer shall be thine." The peasant quick replies, "You'll find 'em there In yon dark vale"; and in the vale they were. The double bribe had his false heart beguil'd: The God, successful in the tryal, smil'd; "And dost thou thus betray my self to me? Me to my self dost thou betray?" says he: Then to a Touch stone turns the faithless spy; And in his name records his infamy. The Story of Aglauros, transform'd into a Statue This done, the God flew up on high, and pass'd O'er lofty Athens, by Minerva grac'd, And wide Munichia, whilst his eyes survey All the vast region that beneath him lay. 'Twas now the feast, when each Athenian maid Her yearly homage to Minerva paid; In canisters, with garlands cover'd o'er, High on their heads, their mystick gifts they bore: And now, returning in a solemn train, The troop of shining virgins fill'd the plain. The God well pleas'd beheld the pompous show, And saw the bright procession pass below; Then veer'd about, and took a wheeling flight, And hover'd o'er them: as the spreading kite, That smells the slaughter'd victim from on high, Flies at a distance, if the priests are nigh, And sails around, and keeps it in her eye: So kept the God the virgin quire in view, And in slow winding circles round them flew. As Lucifer excells the meanest star, Or, as the full-orb'd Phoebe, Lucifer; So much did Herse all the rest outvy, And gave a grace to the solemnity. Hermes was fir'd, as in the clouds he hung: So the cold bullet, that with fury slung From Balearick engines mounts on high, Glows in the whirl, and burns along the sky. At length he pitch'd upon the ground, and show'd The form divine, the features of a God. He knew their vertue o'er a female heart, And yet he strives to better them by art. He hangs his mantle loose, and sets to show The golden edging on the seam below; Adjusts his flowing curls, and in his hand Waves, with an air, the sleep-procuring wand; The glitt'ring sandals to his feet applies, And to each heel the well-trim'd pinion ties. His ornaments with nicest art display'd, He seeks th' apartment of the royal maid. The roof was all with polish'd iv'ry lin'd, That richly mix'd, in clouds of tortoise shin'd. Three rooms, contiguous, in a range were plac'd, The midmost by the beauteous Herse grac'd; Her virgin sisters lodg'd on either side. Aglauros first th' approaching God descry'd, And, as he cross'd her chamber, ask'd his name, And what his business was, and whence he came. "I come," reply'd the God, "from Heav'n, to woo Your sister, and to make an aunt of you; I am the son and messenger of Jove; My name is Mercury, my bus'ness love; Do you, kind damsel, take a lover's part, And gain admittance to your sister's heart." She star'd him in the face with looks amaz'd, As when she on Minerva's secret gaz'd, And asks a mighty treasure for her hire; And, 'till he brings it, makes the God retire. Minerva griev'd to see the nymph succeed; And now remembring the late impious deed, When, disobedient to her strict command, She touch'd the chest with an unhallow'd hand; In big-swoln sighs her inward rage express'd, That heav'd the rising Aegis on her breast; Then sought out Envy in her dark abode, Defil'd with ropy gore and clots of blood: Shut from the winds, and from the wholesome skies, In a deep vale the gloomy dungeon lies, Dismal and cold, where not a beam of light Invades the winter, or disturbs the night. Directly to the cave her course she steer'd; Against the gates her martial lance she rear'd; The gates flew open, and the fiend appear'd. A pois'nous morsel in her teeth she chew'd, And gorg'd the flesh of vipers for her food. Minerva loathing turn'd away her eye; The hideous monster, rising heavily, Came stalking forward with a sullen pace, And left her mangled offals on the place. Soon as she saw the goddess gay and bright, She fetch'd a groan at such a chearful sight. Livid and meagre were her looks, her eye In foul distorted glances turn'd awry; A hoard of gall her inward parts possess'd, And spread a greenness o'er her canker'd breast; Her teeth were brown with rust, and from her tongue, In dangling drops, the stringy poison hung. She never smiles but when the wretched weep, Nor lulls her malice with a moment's sleep, Restless in spite: while watchful to destroy, She pines and sickens at another's joy; Foe to her self, distressing and distrest, She bears her own tormentor in her breast. The Goddess gave (for she abhorr'd her sight) A short command: "To Athens speed thy flight; On curst Aglauros try thy utmost art, And fix thy rankest venoms in her heart." This said, her spear she push'd against the ground, And mounting from it with an active bound, Flew off to Heav'n: the hag with eyes askew Look'd up, and mutter'd curses as she flew; For sore she fretted, and began to grieve At the success which she her self must give. Then takes her staff, hung round with wreaths of thorn, And sails along, in a black whirlwind born, O'er fields and flow'ry meadows: where she steers Her baneful course, a mighty blast appears, Mildews and blights; the meadows are defac'd, The fields, the flow'rs, and the whole years laid waste: On mortals next, and peopled towns she falls, And breathes a burning plague among their walls. When Athens she beheld, for arts renown'd, With peace made happy, and with plenty crown'd, Scarce could the hideous fiend from tears forbear, To find out nothing that deserv'd a tear. Th' apartment now she enter'd, where at rest Aglauros lay, with gentle sleep opprest. To execute Minerva's dire command, She stroak'd the virgin with her canker'd hand, Then prickly thorns into her breast convey'd, That stung to madness the devoted maid: Her subtle venom still improves the smart, Frets in the blood, and festers in the heart. To make the work more sure, a scene she drew, And plac'd before the dreaming virgin's view Her sister's marriage, and her glorious fate: Th' imaginary bride appears in state; The bride-groom with unwonted beauty glows: For envy magnifies what-e'er she shows. Full of the dream, Aglauros pin'd away In tears all night, in darkness all the day; Consum'd like ice, that just begins to run, When feebly smitten by the distant sun; Or like unwholsome weeds, that set on fire Are slowly wasted, and in smoke expire. Giv'n up to envy (for in ev'ry thought The thorns, the venom, and the vision wrought) Oft did she call on death, as oft decreed, Rather than see her sister's wish succeed, To tell her awfull father what had past: At length before the door her self she cast; And, sitting on the ground with sullen pride, A passage to the love-sick God deny'd. The God caress'd, and for admission pray'd, And sooth'd in softest words th' envenom'd maid. In vain he sooth'd: "Begone!" the maid replies, "Or here I keep my seat, and never rise." "Then keep thy seat for ever," cries the God, And touch'd the door, wide op'ning to his rod. Fain would she rise, and stop him, but she found Her trunk too heavy to forsake the ground; Her joynts are all benum'd, her hands are pale, And marble now appears in ev'ry nail. As when a cancer in the body feeds, And gradual death from limb to limb proceeds; So does the chilness to each vital parte Spread by degrees, and creeps into her heart; 'Till hard'ning ev'ry where, and speechless grown, She sits unmov'd, and freezes to a stone. But still her envious hue and sullen mien Are in the sedentary figure seen. Europa's Rape When now the God his fury had allay'd, And taken vengeance of the stubborn maid, From where the bright Athenian turrets rise He mounts aloft, and re-ascends the skies. Jove saw him enter the sublime abodes, And, as he mix'd among the crowd of Gods, Beckon'd him out, and drew him from the rest, And in soft whispers thus his will exprest. "My trusty Hermes, by whose ready aid Thy sire's commands are through the world convey'd. Resume thy wings, exert their utmost force, And to the walls of Sidon speed thy course; There find a herd of heifers wand'ring o'er The neighb'ring hill, and drive 'em to the shore." Thus spoke the God, concealing his intent. The trusty Hermes, on his message went, And found the herd of heifers wand'ring o'er A neighb'ring hill, and drove 'em to the shore; Where the king's daughter, with a lovely train Of fellow-nymphs, was sporting on the plain. The dignity of empire laid aside, (For love but ill agrees with kingly pride) The ruler of the skies, the thund'ring God, Who shakes the world's foundations with a nod, Among a herd of lowing heifers ran, Frisk'd in a bull, and bellow'd o'er the plain. Large rowles of fat about his shoulders clung, And from his neck the double dewlap hung. His skin was whiter than the snow that lies Unsully'd by the breath of southern skies; Small shining horns on his curl'd forehead stand, As turn'd and polish'd by the work-man's hand; His eye-balls rowl'd, not formidably bright, But gaz'd and languish'd with a gentle light. His ev'ry look was peaceful, and exprest The softness of the lover in the beast. Agenor's royal daughter, as she plaid Among the fields, the milk-white bull survey'd, And view'd his spotless body with delight, And at a distance kept him in her sight. At length she pluck'd the rising flow'rs, and fed The gentle beast, and fondly stroak'd his head. He stood well-pleas'd to touch the charming fair, But hardly could confine his pleasure there. And now he wantons o'er the neighb'ring strand, Now rowls his body on the yellow sand; And, now perceiving all her fears decay'd, Comes tossing forward to the royal maid; Gives her his breast to stroke, and downward turns His grizly brow, and gently stoops his horns. In flow'ry wreaths the royal virgin drest His bending horns, and kindly clapt his breast. 'Till now grown wanton and devoid of fear, Not knowing that she prest the Thunderer, She plac'd her self upon his back, and rode O'er fields and meadows, seated on the God. He gently march'd along, and by degrees Left the dry meadow, and approach'd the seas; Where now he dips his hoofs and wets his thighs, Now plunges in, and carries off the prize. The frighted nymph looks backward on the shoar, And hears the tumbling billows round her roar; But still she holds him fast: one hand is born Upon his back; the other grasps a horn: Her train of ruffling garments flies behind, Swells in the air, and hovers in the wind. Through storms and tempests he the virgin bore, And lands her safe on the Dictean shore; Where now, in his divinest form array'd, In his true shape he captivates the maid; Who gazes on him, and with wond'ring eyes Beholds the new majestick figure rise, His glowing features, and celestial light, And all the God discover'd to her sight. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ~ Ovid, BOOK THE SECOND ,

884:MANTIS EIM ESQLWN AGWNWN --Oedip. Colon. TO HIS EXCELLENCY PRINCE ALEXANDER MAVROCORDATO LATE SECRETARY FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS TO THE HOSPODAR OF WALLACHIA THE DRAMA OF HELLAS IS INSCRIBED AS AN IMPERFECT TOKEN OF THE ADMIRATION, SYMPATHY, AND FRIENDSHIP OF THE AUTHOR. PROLOGUE TO HELLAS Herald of Eternity. It is the day when all the sons of God Wait in the roofless senate-house, whose floor Is Chaos, and the immovable abyss Frozen by His steadfast word to hyaline... The shadow of God, and delegate Of that before whose breath the universe Is as a print of dew.            Hierarchs and kings Who from your thrones pinnacled on the past Sway the reluctant present, ye who sit Pavilioned on the radiance or the gloom Of mortal thought, which like an exhalation Steaming from earth, conceals the...of heaven Which gave it birth,...assemble here Before your Father's throne; the swift decree Yet hovers, and the fiery incarnation Is yet withheld, clothd in which it shall ...annul The fairest of those wandering isles that gem The sapphire space of interstellar air, That green and azure sphere, that earth enwrapped Less in the beauty of its tender light Than in an atmosphere of living spirit Which interpenetrating all the... ...it rolls from realm to realm And age to age, and in its ebb and flow Impels the generations To their appointed place, Whilst the high Arbiter Beholds the strife, and at the appointed time Sends His decrees veiled in eternal... Within the circuit of this pendent orb There lies an antique region, on which fell The dews of thought in the world's golden dawn Earliest and most benign, and from it sprung Temples and cities and immortal forms And harmonies of wisdom and of song, And thoughts, and deeds worthy of thoughts so fair. And when the sun of its dominion failed, And when the winter of its glory came, The winds that stripped it bare blew on and swept That dew into the utmost wildernesses In wandering clouds of sunny rain that thawed The unmaternal bosom of the North. Haste, sons of God,...for ye beheld, Reluctant, or consenting, or astonished, The stern decrees go forth, which heaped on Greece Ruin and degradation and despair. A fourth now waits: assemble, sons of God, To speed or to prevent or to suspend, If, as ye dream, such power be not withheld, The unaccomplished destiny... Chorus. The curtain of the Universe Is rent and shattered, The splendour-wingd worlds disperse Like wild doves scattered.   Space is roofless and bare, And in the midst a cloudy shrine, Dark amid thrones of light. In the blue glow of hyaline Golden worlds revolve and shine. In...flight From every point of the Infinite, Like a thousand dawns on a single night The splendours rise and spread; And through thunder and darkness dread Light and music are radiated, And in their pavilioned chariots led By living wings high overhead The giant Powers move, Gloomy or bright as the thrones they fill... A chaos of light and motion Upon that glassy ocean... The senate of the Gods is met, Each in his rank and station set;   There is silence in the spaces Lo! Satan, Christ, and Mahomet Start from their places! Christ.              Almighty Father! Low-kneeling at the feet of Destiny. . . There are two fountains in which spirits weep When mortals err, Discord and Slavery named, And with their bitter dew two Destinies Filled each their irrevocable urns; the third, Fiercest and mightiest, mingled both, and added Chaos and Death, and slow Oblivion's lymph, And hate and terror, and the poisoned rain. . . The Aurora of the nations. By this brow Whose pores wept tears of blood, by these wide wounds, By this imperial crown of agony, By infamy and solitude and death, For this I underwent, and by the pain Of pity for those who would...for me The unremembered joy of a revenge, For this I feltby Plato's sacred light, Of which my spirit was a burning morrow By Greece and all she cannot cease to be, Her quenchless words, sparks of immortal truth, Stars of all nighther harmonies and forms, Echoes and shadows of what Love adores In thee, I do compel thee, send forth Fate, Thy irrevocable child: let her descend, A seraph-wingd Victory [arrayed] In tempest of the omnipotence of God Which sweeps through all things. From hollow leagues, from Tyranny which arms Adverse miscreeds and emulous anarchies To stamp, as on a wingd serpent's seed, Upon the name of Freedom; from the storm Of faction, which like earthquake shakes and sickens The solid heart of enterprise; from all By which the holiest dreams of highest spirits Are stars beneath the dawn...                  She shall arise Victorious as the world arose from Chaos! And as the Heavens and the Earth arrayed Their presence in the beauty and the light Of Thy first smile, O Father,as they gather The spirit of Thy love which paves for them Their path o'er the abyss, till every sphere Shall be one living Spirit,-- so shall Greece-- Satan. Be as all things beneath the empyrean, Mine! Art thou eyeless like old Destiny, Thou mockery-king, crowned with a wreath of thorns? Whose sceptre is a reed, the broken reed Which pierces thee! whose throne a chair of scorn; For seest thou not beneath this crystal floor The innumerable worlds of golden light Which are my empire, and the least of them ...which thou wouldst redeem from me? Know'st thou not them my portion? Or wouldst rekindle the...strife Which our great Father then did arbitrate Which he assigned to his competing sons Each his apportioned realm?                Thou Destiny, Thou who art mailed in the omnipotence Of Him who sends thee forth, whate'er thy task, Speed, spare not to accomplish, and be mine Thy trophies, whether Greece again become The fountain in the desert whence the earth Shall drink of freedom, which shall give it strength To suffer, or a gulf of hollow death To swallow all delight, all life, all hope. Go, thou Vicegerent of my will, no less Than of the Father's; but lest thou shouldst faint, The wingd hounds, Famine and Pestilence, Shall wait on thee, the hundred-forkd snake Insatiate Superstition still shall... The earth behind thy steps, and War shall hover Above, and Fraud shall gape below, and Change Shall flit before thee on her dragon wings, Convulsing and consuming, and I add Three vials of the tears which daemons weep When virtuous spirits through the gate of Death Pass triumphing over the thorns of life, Sceptres and crowns, mitres and swords and snares, Trampling in scorn, like Him and Socrates. The first is Anarchy; when Power and Pleasure, Glory and science and security, On Freedom hang like fruit on the green tree, Then pour it forth, and men shall gather ashes. The second Tyranny-- Christ.            Obdurate spirit! Thou seest but the Past in the To-come. Pride is thy error and thy punishment. Boast not thine empire, dream not that thy worlds Are more than furnace-sparks or rainbow-drops Before the Power that wields and kindles them. True greatness asks not space, true excellence Lives in the Spirit of all things that live, Which lends it to the worlds thou callest thine... Mahomet. Haste thou and fill the waning crescent With beams as keen as those which pierced the shadow Of Christian night rolled back upon the West, When the orient moon of Islam rode in triumph From Tmolus to the Acroceraunian snow...                        Wake, thou Word Of God, and from the throne of Destiny Even to the utmost limit of thy way May Triumph........... Be thou a curse on them whose creed Divides and multiplies the most high God. HELLAS DRAMATIS PERSONAE Mahmud. Hassan. Daood. Ahasuerus, a Jew. Chorus of Greek Captive Women. The Phantom of Mahomet II. Messengers, Slaves, and Attendants. Scene, Constantinople. Time, Sunset. Scene--A Terrace on the Seraglio. Mahmud sleeping, an Indian Slave sitting beside his Couch. Chorus of Greek Captive Women. We strew these opiate flowers   On thy restless pillow, They were stripped from Orient bowers,   By the Indian billow.    Be thy sleep    Calm and deep, Like theirs who fellnot ours who weep! Indian. Away, unlovely dreams!   Away, false shapes of sleep! Be his, as Heaven seems,   Clear, and bright, and deep! Soft as love, and calm as death, Sweet as a summer night without a breath. Chorus. Sleep, sleep! our song is laden   With the soul of slumber; It was sung by a Samian maiden,   Whose lover was of the number    Who now keep    That calm sleep Whence none may wake, where none shall weep. Indian. I touch thy temples pale!   I breathe my soul on thee! And could my prayers avail,   All my joy should be Dead, and I would live to weep, So thou mightst win one hour of quiet sleep. Chorus.   Breathe low, low The spell of the mighty mistress now! When Conscience lulls her sated snake, And Tyrants sleep, let Freedom wake.   Breathe lowlow The words which, like secret fire, shall flow Through the veins of the frozen earthlow, low! Semichorus I. Life may change, but it may fly not; Hope may vanish, but can die not; Truth be veiled, but still it burneth; Love repulsed,but it returneth! Semichorus II. Yet were life a charnel where Hope lay coffined with Despair; Yet were truth a sacred lie, Love were lust Semichorus I.          If Liberty Lent not life its soul of light, Hope its iris of delight, Truth its prophet's robe to wear, Love its power to give and bear. Chorus. In the great morning of the world, The Spirit of God with might unfurled The flag of Freedom over Chaos, And all its banded anarchs fled, Like vultures frighted from Imaus, Before an earthquake's tread. So from Time's tempestuous dawn Freedom's splendour burst and shone: Thermopylae and Marathon Caught, like mountains beacon-lighted, The springing Fire.The wingd glory On Philippi half-alighted, Like an eagle on a promontory. Its unwearied wings could fan The quenchless ashes of Milan.[1] From age to age, from man to man, It lived; and lit from land to land Florence, Albion, Switzerland. Then night fell; and, as from night, Reassuming fiery flight, From the West swift Freedom came, Against the course of Heaven and doom, A second sun arrayed in flame, To burn, to kindle, to illume. From far Atlantis its young beams Chased the shadows and the dreams. France, with all her sanguine steams, Hid, but quenched it not; again Through clouds its shafts of glory rain From utmost Germany to Spain. As an eagle fed with morning Scorns the embattled tempest's warning, When she seeks her aerie hanging In the mountain-cedar's hair, And her brood expect the clanging Of her wings through the wild air, Sick with famine:Freedom, so To what of Greece remaineth now Returns; her hoary ruins glow Like Orient mountains lost in day; Beneath the safety of her wings Her renovated nurslings prey, And in the naked lightenings Of truth they purge their dazzled eyes. Let Freedom leavewhere'er she flies, A Desert, or a Paradise: Let the beautiful and the brave Share her glory, or a grave. Semichorus I. With the gifts of gladness Greece did thy cradle strew; Semichorus II. With the tears of sadness Greece did thy shroud bedew! Semichorus I. With an orphan's affection She followed thy bier through Time; Semichorus II. And at thy resurrection Reappeareth, like thou, sublime! Semichorus I. If Heaven should resume thee, To Heaven shall her spirit ascend; Semichorus II. If Hell should entomb thee, To Hell shall her high hearts bend. Semichorus I. If Annihilation Semichorus II. Dust let her glories be! And a name and a nation Be forgotten, Freedom, with thee! Indian. His brow grows darkerbreathe notmove not! He startshe shuddersye that love not, With your panting loud and fast, Have awakened him at last. Mahmud (starting from his sleep). Man the Seraglio-guard! make fast the gate! What! from a cannonade of three short hours? 'Tis false! that breach towards the Bosphorus Cannot be practicable yetwho stirs? Stand to the match; that when the foe prevails One spark may mix in reconciling ruin The conqueror and the conquered! Heave the tower Into the gapwrench off the roof! (Enter Hassan.)                   Ha! what! The truth of day lightens upon my dream And I am Mahmud still. Hassan.             Your Sublime Highness Is strangely moved. Mahmud.           The times do cast strange shadows On those who watch and who must rule their course, Lest they, being first in peril as in glory, Be whelmed in the fierce ebb:and these are of them. Thrice has a gloomy vision hunted me As thus from sleep into the troubled day; It shakes me as the tempest shakes the sea, Leaving no figure upon memory's glass. Would thatno matter. Thou didst say thou knewest A Jew, whose spirit is a chronicle Of strange and secret and forgotten things. I bade thee summon him:'tis said his tribe Dream, and are wise interpreters of dreams. Hassan. The Jew of whom I spake is old,so old He seems to have outlived a world's decay; The hoary mountains and the wrinkled ocean Seem younger still than he;his hair and beard Are whiter than the tempest-sifted snow; His cold pale limbs and pulseless arteries Are like the fibres of a cloud instinct With light, and to the soul that quickens them Are as the atoms of the mountain-drift To the winter wind:but from his eye looks forth A life of unconsumd thought which pierces The Present, and the Past, and the To-come. Some say that this is he whom the great prophet Jesus, the son of Joseph, for his mockery, Mocked with the curse of immortality. Some feign that he is Enoch: others dream He was pre-adamite and has survived Cycles of generation and of ruin. The sage, in truth, by dreadful abstinence And conquering penance of the mutinous flesh, Deep contemplation, and unwearied study, In years outstretched beyond the date of man, May have attained to sovereignty and science Over those strong and secret things and thoughts Which others fear and know not. Mahmud.                  I would talk With this old Jew. Hassan.           Thy will is even now Made known to him, where he dwells in a sea-cavern 'Mid the Demonesi, less accessible Than thou or God! He who would question him Must sail alone at sunset, where the stream Of Ocean sleeps around those foamless isles, When the young moon is westering as now, And evening airs wander upon the wave; And when the pines of that bee-pasturing isle, Green Erebinthus, quench the fiery shadow Of his gilt prow within the sapphire water, Then must the lonely helmsman cry aloud 'Ahasuerus!' and the caverns round Will answer 'Ahasuerus!' If his prayer Be granted, a faint meteor will arise Lighting him over Marmora, and a wind Will rush out of the sighing pine-forest, And with the wind a storm of harmony Unutterably sweet, and pilot him Through the soft twilight to the Bosphorus: Thence at the hour and place and circumstance Fit for the matter of their conference The Jew appears. Few dare, and few who dare Win the desired communionbut that shout Bodes [A shout within. Mahmud.     Evil, doubtless; like all human sounds. Let me converse with spirits. Hassan.                 That shout again.                 Mahmud. This Jew whom thou hast summoned Hassan.                   Will be here                   Mahmud. When the omnipotent hour to which are yoked He, I, and all things shall compelenough! Silence those mutineersthat drunken crew, That crowd about the pilot in the storm. Ay! strike the foremost shorter by a head! They weary me, and I have need of rest. Kings are like starsthey rise and set, they have The worship of the world, but no repose. [Exeunt severally. Chorus[2]. Worlds on worlds are rolling ever From creation to decay, Like the bubbles on a river Sparkling, bursting, borne away.   But they are still immortal   Who, through birth's orient portal And death's dark chasm hurrying to and fro,   Clothe their unceasing flight   In the brief dust and light Gathered around their chariots as they go;   New shapes they still may weave,   New gods, new laws receive, Bright or dim are they as the robes they last   On Death's bare ribs had cast.    A power from the unknown God,   A Promethean conqueror, came; Like a triumphal path he trod   The thorns of death and shame.   A mortal shape to him   Was like the vapour dim Which the orient planet animates with light;   Hell, Sin, and Slavery came,   Like bloodhounds mild and tame, Nor preyed, until their Lord had taken flight;   The moon of Mahomet   Arose, and it shall set: While blazoned as on Heaven's immortal noon The cross leads generations on.   Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep   From one whose dreams are Paradise Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to weep,   And Day peers forth with her blank eyes;   So fleet, so faint, so fair,   The Powers of earth and air Fled from the folding-star of Bethlehem:   Apollo, Pan, and Love,   And even Olympian Jove Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared on them;   Our hills and seas and streams,   Dispeopled of their dreams, Their watrs turned to blood, their dew to tears,   Wailed for the golden years.   Enter Mahmud, Hassan, Daood, and others. Mahmud. More gold? our ancestors bought gold with victory, And shall I sell it for defeat? Daood.                  The Janizars Clamour for pay. Mahmud.          Go! bid them pay themselves With Christian blood! Are there no Grecian virgins Whose shrieks and spasms and tears they may enjoy? No infidel children to impale on spears? No hoary priests after that Patriarch[3] Who bent the curse against his country's heart, Which clove his own at last? Go! bid them kill, Blood is the seed of gold. Daood.               It has been sown, And yet the harvest to the sicklemen Is as a grain to each. Mahmud.             Then, take this signet, Unlock the seventh chamber in which lie The treasures of victorious Solyman, An empire's spoil stored for a day of ruin. O spirit of my sires! is it not come? The prey-birds and the wolves are gorged and sleep; But these, who spread their feast on the red earth, Hunger for gold, which fills not.See them fed; Then, lead them to the rivers of fresh death. [Exit Daood. O miserable dawn, after a night More glorious than the day which it usurped! O faith in God! O power on earth! O word Of the great prophet, whose o'ershadowing wings Darkened the thrones and idols of the West, Now bright!For thy sake cursd be the hour, Even as a father by an evil child, When the orient moon of Islam rolled in triumph From Caucasus to White Ceraunia! Ruin above, and anarchy below; Terror without, and treachery within; The Chalice of destruction full, and all Thirsting to drink; and who among us dares To dash it from his lips? and where is Hope? Hassan. The lamp of our dominion still rides high; One God is GodMahomet is His prophet. Four hundred thousand Moslems, from the limits Of utmost Asia, irresistibly Throng, like full clouds at the Sirocco's cry; But not like them to weep their strength in tears: They bear destroying lightning, and their step Wakes earthquake to consume and overwhelm, And reign in ruin. Phrygian Olympus, Tmolus, and Latmos, and Mycale, roughen With horrent arms; and lofty ships even now, Like vapours anchored to a mountain's edge, Freighted with fire and whirlwind, wait at Scala The convoy of the ever-veering wind. Samos is drunk with blood;the Greek has paid Brief victory with swift loss and long despair. The false Moldavian serfs fled fast and far, When the fierce shout of 'Allah-illa-Allah!' Rose like the war-cry of the northern wind Which kills the sluggish clouds, and leaves a flock Of wild swans struggling with the naked storm. So were the lost Greeks on the Danube's day! If night is mute, yet the returning sun Kindles the voices of the morning birds; Nor at thy bidding less exultingly Than birds rejoicing in the golden day, The Anarchies of Africa unleash Their tempest-wingd cities of the sea, To speak in thunder to the rebel world. Like sulphurous clouds, half-shattered by the storm, They sweep the pale Aegean, while the Queen Of Ocean, bound upon her island-throne, Far in the West, sits mourning that her sons Who frown on Freedom spare a smile for thee: Russia still hovers, as an eagle might Within a cloud, near which a kite and crane Hang tangled in inextricable fight, To stoop upon the victor;for she fears The name of Freedom, even as she hates thine. But recreant Austria loves thee as the Grave Loves Pestilence, and her slow dogs of war Fleshed with the chase, come up from Italy, And howl upon their limits; for they see The panther, Freedom, fled to her old cover, Amid seas and mountains, and a mightier brood Crouch round. What Anarch wears a crown or mitre, Or bears the sword, or grasps the key of gold, Whose friends are not thy friends, whose foes thy foes? Our arsenals and our armouries are full; Our forts defy assault; ten thousand cannon Lie ranged upon the beach, and hour by hour Their earth-convulsing wheels affright the city; The galloping of fiery steeds makes pale The Christian merchant; and the yellow Jew Hides his hoard deeper in the faithless earth. Like clouds, and like the shadows of the clouds, Over the hills of Anatolia, Swift in wide troops the Tartar chivalry Sweep;the far flashing of their starry lances Reverberates the dying light of day. We have one God, one King, one Hope, one Law; But many-headed Insurrection stands Divided in itself, and soon must fall. Mahmud. Proud words, when deeds come short, are seasonable: Look, Hassan, on yon crescent moon, emblazoned Upon that shattered flag of fiery cloud Which leads the rear of the departing day; Wan emblem of an empire fading now! See how it trembles in the blood-red air, And like a mighty lamp whose oil is spent Shrinks on the horizon's edge, while, from above, One star with insolent and victorious light Hovers above its fall, and with keen beams, Like arrows through a fainting antelope, Strikes its weak from to death. Hassan.                  Even as that moon Renews itself Mahmud.         Shall we be not renewed! Far other bark than ours were needed now To stem the torrent of descending time: The Spirit that lifts the slave before his lord Stalks through the capitals of armd kings, And spreads his ensign in the wilderness: Exults in chains; and, when the rebel falls, Cries like the blood of Abel from the dust; And the inheritors of the earth, like beasts When earthquake is unleashed, with idiot fear Cower in their kingly densas I do now. What were Defeat when Victory must appal? Or Danger, when Security looks pale? How said the messengerwho, from the fort Islanded in the Danube, saw the battle Of Bucharest?that Hassan.            Ibrahim's scimitar Drew with its gleam swift victory from Heaven, To burn before him in the night of battle A light and a destruction. Mahmud.               Ay! the day Was ours: but how? Hassan.            The light Wallachians, The Arnaut, Servian, and Albanian allies Fled from the glance of our artillery Almost before the thunderstone alit. One half the Grecian army made a bridge Of safe and slow retreat, with Moslem dead; The other Mahmud.       Speaktremble not.       Hassan.                  Islanded By victor myriads, formed in hollow square With rough and steadfast front, and thrice flung back The deluge of our foaming cavalry; Thrice their keen wedge of battle pierced our lines. Our baffled army trembled like one man Before a host, and gave them space; but soon, From the surrounding hills, the batteries blazed, Kneading them down with fire and iron rain: Yet none approached; till, like a field of corn Under the hook of the swart sickleman, The band, intrenched in mounds of Turkish dead, Grew weak and few.Then said the Pacha, 'Slaves, Render yourselvesthey have abandoned you What hope of refuge, or retreat, or aid? We grant your lives.' 'Grant that which is thine own!' Cried one, and fell upon his sword and died! Another'God, and man, and hope abandon me; But I to them, and to myself, remain Constant:'he bowed his head, and his heart burst. A third exclaimed, 'There is a refuge, tyrant, Where thou darest not pursue, and canst not harm Shouldst thou pursue; there we shall meet again.' Then held his breath, and, after a brief spasm, The indignant spirit cast its mortal garment Among the slaindead earth upon the earth! So these survivors, each by different ways, Some strange, all sudden, none dishonourable, Met in triumphant death; and when our army Closed in, while yet wonder, and awe, and shame Held back the base hyaenas of the battle That feed upon the dead and fly the living, One rose out of the chaos of the slain: And if it were a corpse which some dread spirit Of the old saviours of the land we rule Had lifted in its anger, wandering by; Or if there burned within the dying man Unquenchable disdain of death, and faith Creating what it feigned;I cannot tell But he cried, 'Phantoms of the free, we come! Armies of the Eternal, ye who strike To dust the citadels of sanguine kings, And shake the souls throned on their stony hearts, And thaw their frostwork diadems like dew; O ye who float around this clime, and weave The garment of the glory which it wears, Whose fame, though earth betray the dust it clasped, Lies sepulchred in monumental thought; Progenitors of all that yet is great, Ascribe to your bright senate, O accept In your high ministrations, us, your sons Us first, and the more glorious yet to come! And ye, weak conquerors! giants who look pale When the crushed worm rebels beneath your tread, The vultures and the dogs, your pensioners tame, Are overgorged; but, like oppressors, still They crave the relic of Destruction's feast. The exhalations and the thirsty winds Are sick with blood; the dew is foul with death; Heaven's light is quenched in slaughter: thus, where'er Upon your camps, cities, or towers, or fleets, The obscene birds the reeking remnants cast Of these dead limbs,upon your streams and mountains, Upon your fields, your gardens, and your housetops, Where'er the winds shall creep, or the clouds fly, Or the dews fall, or the angry sun look down With poisoned lightFamine, and Pestilence, And Panic, shall wage war upon our side! Nature from all her boundaries is moved Against ye: Time has found ye light as foam. The Earth rebels; and Good and Evil stake Their empire o'er the unborn world of men On this one cast;but ere the die be thrown, The renovated genius of our race, Proud umpire of the impious game, descends, A seraph-wingd Victory, bestriding The tempest of the Omnipotence of God, Which sweeps all things to their appointed doom, And you to oblivion!'More he would have said, But Mahmud.    Diedas thou shouldst ere thy lips had painted Their ruin in the hues of our success. A rebel's crime, gilt with a rebel's tongue! Your heart is Greek, Hassan. Hassan.                It may be so: A spirit not my own wrenched me within, And I have spoken words I fear and hate; Yet would I die for Mahmud.            Live! oh live! outlive Me and this sinking empire. But the fleet Hassan. Alas! Mahmud.     The fleet which, like a flock of clouds Chased by the wind, flies the insurgent banner! Our wingd castles from their merchant ships! Our myriads before their weak pirate bands! Our arms before their chains! our years of empire Before their centuries of servile fear! Death is awake! Repulse is on the waters! They own no more the thunder-bearing banner Of Mahmud; but, like hounds of a base breed, Gorge from a stranger's hand, and rend their master. Hassan. Latmos, and Ampelos, and Phanae saw The wreck Mahmud.       The caves of the Icarian isles Told each to the other in loud mockery, And with the tongue as of a thousand echoes, First of the sea-convulsing fightand, then, Thou darest to speaksenseless are the mountains: Interpret thou their voice! Hassan.                My presence bore A part in that day's shame. The Grecian fleet Bore down at daybreak from the North, and hung As multitudinous on the ocean line, As cranes upon the cloudless Thracian wind. Our squadron, convoying ten thousand men, Was stretching towards Nauplia when the battle Was kindled. First through the hail of our artillery The agile Hydriote barks with press of sail Dashed:ship to ship, cannon to cannon, man To man were grappled in the embrace of war, Inextricable but by death or victory. The tempest of the raging fight convulsed To its crystlline depths that stainless sea, And shook Heaven's roof of golden morning clouds, Poised on an hundred azure mountain-isles. In the brief trances of the artillery One cry from the destroyed and the destroyer Rose, and a cloud of desolation wrapped The unforeseen event, till the north wind Sprung from the sea, lifting the heavy veil Of battle-smokethen victoryvictory! For, as we thought, three frigates from Algiers Bore down from Naxos to our aid, but soon The abhorrd cross glimmered behind, before, Among, around us; and that fatal sign Dried with its beams the strength in Moslem hearts, As the sun drinks the dew.What more? We fled! Our noonday path over the sanguine foam Was beaconed,and the glare struck the sun pale, By our consuming transports: the fierce light Made all the shadows of our sails blood-red, And every countenance blank. Some ships lay feeding The ravening fire, even to the water's level; Some were blown up; some, settling heavily, Sunk; and the shrieks of our companions died Upon the wind, that bore us fast and far, Even after they were dead. Nine thousand perished! We met the vultures legioned in the air Stemming the torrent of the tainted wind; They, screaming from their cloudy mountain-peaks, Stooped through the sulphurous battle-smoke and perched Each on the weltering carcase that we loved, Like its ill angel or its damnd soul, Riding upon the bosom of the sea. We saw the dog-fish hastening to their feast. Joy waked the voiceless people of the sea, And ravening Famine left his ocean cave To dwell with War, with us, and with Despair. We met night three hours to the west of Patmos, And with night, tempest Mahmud.               Cease!               Enter a Messenger. Messenger.                  Your Sublime Highness, That Christian hound, the Muscovite Ambassador, Has left the city.If the rebel fleet Had anchored in the port, had victory Crowned the Greek legions in the Hippodrome, Panic were tamer.Obedience and Mutiny, Like giants in contention planet-struck, Stand gazing on each other.There is peace In Stamboul. Mahmud.        Is the grave not calmer still? Its ruins shall be mine. Hassan.              Fear not the Russian: The tiger leagues not with the stag at bay Against the hunter.Cunning, base, and cruel, He crouches, watching till the spoil be won, And must be paid for his reserve in blood. After the war is fought, yield the sleek Russian That which thou canst not keep, his deserved portion Of blood, which shall not flow through streets and fields, Rivers and seas, like that which we may win, But stagnate in the veins of Christian slaves! Enter second Messenger. Second Messenger. Nauplia, Tripolizza, Mothon, Athens, Navarin, Artas, Monembasia, Corinth, and Thebes are carried by assault, And every Islamite who made his dogs Fat with the flesh of Galilean slaves Passed at the edge of the sword: the lust of blood, Which made our warriors drunk, is quenched in death; But like a fiery plague breaks out anew In deeds which make the Christian cause look pale In its own light. The garrison of Patras Has store but for ten days, nor is there hope But from the Briton: at once slave and tyrant, His wishes still are weaker than his fears, Or he would sell what faith may yet remain From the oaths broke in Genoa and in Norway; And if you buy him not, your treasury Is empty even of promiseshis own coin. The freedman of a western poet-chief[4] Holds Attica with seven thousand rebels, And has beat back the Pacha of Negropont: The agd Ali sits in Yanina A crownless metaphor of empire: His name, that shadow of his withered might, Holds our besieging army like a spell In prey to famine, pest, and mutiny; He, bastioned in his citadel, looks forth Joyless upon the sapphire lake that mirrors The ruins of the city where he reigned Childless and sceptreless. The Greek has reaped The costly harvest his own blood matured, Not the sower, Aliwho has bought a truce From Ypsilanti with ten camel-loads Of Indian gold. Enter a third Messenger. Mahmud.         What more?         Third Messenger.               The Christian tribes Of Lebanon and the Syrian wilderness Are in revolt;Damascus, Hems, Aleppo Tremble;the Arab menaces Medina, The Aethiop has intrenched himself in Sennaar, And keeps the Egyptian rebel well employed, Who denies homage, claims investiture As price of tardy aid. Persia demands The cities on the Tigris, and the Georgians Refuse their living tribute. Crete and Cyprus, Like mountain-twins that from each other's veins Catch the volcano-fire and earthquake-spasm, Shake in the general fever. Through the city, Like birds before a storm, the Santons shriek, And prophesyings horrible and new Are heard among the crowd: that sea of men Sleeps on the wrecks it made, breathless and still. A Dervise, learnd in the Koran, preaches That it is written how the sins of Islam Must raise up a destroyer even now. The Greeks expect a Saviour from the West[5], Who shall not come, men say, in clouds and glory, But in the omnipresence of that Spirit In which all live and are. Ominous signs Are blazoned broadly on the noonday sky: One saw a red cross stamped upon the sun; It has rained blood; and monstrous births declare The secret wrath of Nature and her Lord. The army encamped upon the Cydaris Was roused last night by the alarm of battle, And saw two hosts conflicting in the air, The shadows doubtless of the unborn time Cast on the mirror of the night. While yet The fight hung balanced, there arose a storm Which swept the phantoms from among the stars. At the third watch the Spirit of the Plague Was heard abroad flapping among the tents; Those who relieved watch found the sentinels dead. The last news from the camp is, that a thousand Have sickened, and Enter a fourth Messenger. Mahmud.            And thou, pale ghost, dim shadow Of some untimely rumour, speak! Fourth Messenger.                  One comes Fainting with toil, covered with foam and blood: He stood, he says, on Chelonites' Promontory, which o'erlooks the isles that groan Under the Briton's frown, and all their waters Then trembling in the splendour of the moon, When as the wandering clouds unveiled or hid Her boundless light, he saw two adverse fleets Stalk through the night in the horizon's glimmer, Mingling fierce thunders and sulphureous gleams, And smoke which strangled every infant wind That soothed the silver clouds through the deep air. At length the battle slept, but the Sirocco Awoke, and drove his flock of thunder-clouds Over the sea-horizon, blotting out All objectssave that in the faint moon-glimpse He saw, or dreamed he saw, the Turkish admiral And two the loftiest of our ships of war, With the bright image of that Queen of Heaven, Who hid, perhaps, her face for grief, reversed; And the abhorrd cross Enter an Attendant. Attendant.              Your Sublime Highness, The Jew, who Mahmud.        Could not come more seasonably: Bid him attend. I'll hear no more! too long We gaze on danger through the mist of fear, And multiply upon our shattered hopes The images of ruin. Come what will! To-morrow and to-morrow are as lamps Set in our path to light us to the edge Through rough and smooth, nor can we suffer aught Which He inflicts not in whose hand we are. [Exeunt. Semichorus I. Would I were the wingd cloud Of a tempest swift and loud!   I would scorn   The smile of morn And the wave where the moonrise is born!   I would leave   The spirits of eve A shroud for the corpse of the day to weave From other threads than mine! Bask in the deep blue noon divine.    Who would? Not I.    Semichorus II. Whither to fly? Semichorus I. Where the rocks that gird th'Aegean Echo to the battle paean   Of the free   I would flee A tempestuous herald of victory!   My golden rain   For the Grecian slain Should mingle in tears with the bloody main, And my solemn thunder-knell Should ring to the world the passing-bell   Of Tyranny!   Semichorus II. Ah king! wilt thou chain The rack and the rain? Wilt thou fetter the lightning and hurricane? The storms are free,   But we   Chorus. O Slavery! thou frost of the world's prime, Killing its flowers and leaving its thorns bare! Thy touch has stamped these limbs with crime, These brows thy branding garland bear,   But the free heart, the impassive soul    Scorn thy control!    Semichorus I. Let there be light! said Liberty, And like sunrise from the sea, Athens arose!Around her born, Shone like mountains in the morn Glorious states;and are they now Ashes, wrecks, oblivion? Semichorus II.              Go, Where Thermae and Asopus swallowed Persia, as the sand does foam; Deluge upon deluge followed, Discord, Macedon, and Rome: And lastly thou! Semichorus I.          Temples and towers, Citadels and marts, and they Who live and die there, have been ours, And may be thine, and must decay; But Greece and her foundations are Built below the tide of war, Based on the crystlline sea Of thought and its eternity; Her citizens, imperial spirits, Rule the present from the past, On all this world of men inherits Their seal is set. Semichorus II.            Hear ye the blast, Whose Orphic thunder thrilling calls From ruin her Titanian walls? Whose spirit shakes the sapless bones Of Slavery? Argos, Corinth, Crete Hear, and from their mountain thrones The daemons and the nymphs repeat The harmony. Semichorus I.       I hear! I hear!       Semichorus II. The world's eyeless charioteer,   Destiny, is hurrying by! What faith is crushed, what empire bleeds Beneath her earthquake-footed steeds? What eagle-wingd victory sits At her right hand? what shadow flits Before? what splendour rolls behind?   Ruin and renovation cry 'Who but We?' Semichorus I.        I hear! I hear! The hiss as of a rushing wind, The roar as of an ocean foaming, The thunder as of earthquake coming.   I hear! I hear! The crash as of an empire falling, The shrieks as of a people calling 'Mercy! mercy!'How they thrill! Then a shout of 'kill! kill! kill!' And then a small still voice, thus Semichorus II.                     For Revenge and Wrong bring forth their kind, The foul cubs like their parents are, Their den is in the guilty mind, And Conscience feeds them with despair. Semichorus I. In sacred Athens, near the fane Of Wisdom, Pity's altar stood: Serve not the unknown God in vain, But pay that broken shrine again, Love for hate and tears for blood. Enter Mahmud and Ahasuerus. Mahmud. Thou art a man, thou sayest, even as we. Ahasuerus. No more! Mahmud.     But raised above thy fellow-men By thought, as I by power. Ahasuerus.               Thou sayest so.               Mahmud. Thou art an adept in the difficult lore Of Greek and Frank philosophy; thou numberest The flowers, and thou measurest the stars; Thou severest element from element; Thy spirit is present in the Past, and sees The birth of this old world through all its cycles Of desolation and of loveliness, And when man was not, and how man became The monarch and the slave of this low sphere, And all its narrow circlesit is much I honour thee, and would be what thou art Were I not what I am; but the unborn hour, Cradled in fear and hope, conflicting storms, Who shall unveil? Nor thou, nor I, nor any Mighty or wise. I apprehended not What thou hast taught me, but I now perceive That thou art no interpreter of dreams; Thou dost not own that art, device, or God, Can make the Future presentlet it come! Moreover thou disdainest us and ours; Thou art as God, whom thou contemplatest. Ahasuerus. Disdain thee?not the worm beneath thy feet! The Fathomless has care for meaner things Than thou canst dream, and has made pride for those Who would be what they may not, or would seem That which they are not. Sultan! talk no more Of thee and me, the Future and the Past; But look on that which cannot changethe One, The unborn and the undying. Earth and ocean, Space, and the isles of life or light that gem The sapphire floods of interstellar air, This firmament pavilioned upon chaos, With all its cressets of immortal fire, Whose outwall, bastioned impregnably Against the escape of boldest thoughts, repels them As Calpe the Atlantic cloudsthis Whole Of suns, and worlds, and men, and beasts, and flowers, With all the silent or tempestuous workings By which they have been, are, or cease to be, Is but a vision;all that it inherits Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles and dreams; Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less The Future and the Past are idle shadows Of thought's eternal flightthey have no being: Nought is but that which feels itself to be. Mahmud. What meanest thou? Thy words stream like a tempest Of dazzling mist within my brainthey shake The earth on which I stand, and hang like night On Heaven above me. What can they avail? They cast on all things surest, brightest, best, Doubt, insecurity, astonishment. Ahasuerus. Mistake me not! All is contained in each. Dodona's forest to an acorn's cup Is that which has been, or will be, to that Which isthe absent to the present. Thought Alone, and its quick elements, Will, Passion, Reason, Imagination, cannot die; They are, what that which they regard appears, The stuff whence mutability can weave All that it hath dominion o'er, worlds, worms, Empires, and superstitions. What has thought To do with time, or place, or circumstance? Wouldst thou behold the Future?ask and have! Knock and it shall be openedlook, and lo! The coming age is shadowed on the Past As on a glass. Mahmud.        Wild, wilder thoughts convulse My spiritDid not Mahomet the Second Win Stamboul? Ahasuerus.        Thou wouldst ask that giant spirit The written fortunes of thy house and faith. Thou wouldst cite one out of the grave to tell How what was born in blood must die. Mahmud.                     Thy words Have power on me! I see Ahasuerus.               What hearest thou?               Mahmud. A far whisper Terrible silence. Ahasuerus.          What succeeds?          Mahmud.                  The sound As of the assault of an imperial city[6], The hiss of inextinguishable fire, The roar of giant cannon; the earthquaking Fall of vast bastions and precipitous towers, The shock of crags shot from strange enginery, The clash of wheels, and clang of armd hoofs, And crash of brazen mail as of the wreck Of adamantine mountainsthe mad blast Of trumpets, and the neigh of raging steeds, The shrieks of women whose thrill jars the blood, And one sweet laugh, most horrible to hear, As of a joyous infant waked and playing With its dead mother's breast, and now more loud The mingled battle-cry,ha! hear I not 'En toutwi nikh!' 'Allah-illa-Allah!'? Ahasuerus. The sulphurous mist is raisedthou seest Mahmud.                        A chasm, As of two mountains, in the wall of Stamboul; And in that ghastly breach the Islamites, Like giants on the ruins of a world, Stand in the light of sunrise. In the dust Glimmers a kingless diadem, and one Of regal port has cast himself beneath The stream of war. Another proudly clad In golden arms spurs a Tartarian barb Into the gap, and with his iron mace Directs the torrent of that tide of men, And seemshe isMahomet! Ahasuerus.               What thou seest Is but the ghost of thy forgotten dream. A dream itself, yet less, perhaps, than that Thou call'st reality. Thou mayst behold How cities, on which Empire sleeps enthroned, Bow their towered crests to mutability. Poised by the flood, e'en on the height thou holdest, Thou mayst now learn how the full tide of power Ebbs to its depths.Inheritor of glory, Conceived in darkness, born in blood, and nourished With tears and toil, thou seest the mortal throes Of that whose birth was but the same. The Past Now stands before thee like an Incarnation Of the To-come; yet wouldst thou commune with That portion of thyself which was ere thou Didst start for this brief race whose crown is death, Dissolve with that strong faith and fervent passion Which called it from the uncreated deep, Yon cloud of war, with its tempestuous phantoms Of raging death; and draw with mighty will The imperial shade hither. [Exit Ahasuerus. The Phantom of Mahomet the Second appears. Mahmud.               Approach!               Phantom.                    I come Thence whither thou must go! The grave is fitter To take the living than give up the dead; Yet has thy faith prevailed, and I am here. The heavy fragments of the power which fell When I arose, like shapeless crags and clouds, Hang round my throne on the abyss, and voices Of strange lament soothe my supreme repose, Wailing for glory never to return. A later Empire nods in its decay: The autumn of a greener faith is come, And wolfish change, like winter, howls to strip The foliage in which Fame, the eagle, built Her aerie, while Dominion whelped below. The storm is in its branches, and the frost Is on its leaves, and the blank deep expects Oblivion on oblivion, spoil on spoil, Ruin on ruin:Thou art slow, my son; The Anarchs of the world of darkness keep A throne for thee, round which thine empire lies Boundless and mute; and for thy subjects thou, Like us, shalt rule the ghosts of murdered life, The phantoms of the powers who rule thee now Mutinous passions, and conflicting fears, And hopes that sate themselves on dust, and die! Stripped of their mortal strength, as thou of thine. Islam must fall, but we will reign together Over its ruins in the world of death: And if the trunk be dry, yet shall the seed Unfold itself even in the shape of that Which gathers birth in its decay. Woe! woe! To the weak people tangled in the grasp Of its last spasms. Mahmud.           Spirit, woe to all! Woe to the wronged and the avenger! Woe To the destroyer, woe to the destroyed! Woe to the dupe, and woe to the deceiver! Woe to the oppressed, and woe to the oppressor! Woe both to those that suffer and inflict; Those who are born and those who die! but say, Imperial shadow of the thing I am, When, how, by whom, Destruction must accomplish Her consummation! Phantom.          Ask the cold pale Hour, Rich in reversion of impending death, When he shall fall upon whose ripe gray hairs Sit Care, and Sorrow, and Infirmity The weight which Crime, whose wings are plumed with years, Leaves in his flight from ravaged heart to heart Over the heads of men, under which burthen They bow themselves unto the grave: fond wretch! He leans upon his crutch, and talks of years To come, and how in hours of youth renewed He will renew lost joys, and Voice without.                 Victory! Victory!                 [The Phantom vanishes. Mahmud. What sound of the importunate earth has broken My mighty trance? Voice without.          Victory! Victory!          Mahmud. Weak lightning before darkness! poor faint smile Of dying Islam! Voice which art the response Of hollow weakness! Do I wake and live? Were there such things, or may the unquiet brain, Vexed by the wise mad talk of the old Jew, Have shaped itself these shadows of its fear? It matters not!for nought we see or dream, Possess, or lose, or grasp at, can be worth More than it gives or teaches: Come what may, The Future must become the Past, and I As they were to whom once this present hour, This gloomy crag of time to which I cling, Seemed an Elysian isle of peace and joy Never to be attained.I must rebuke This drunkenness of triumph ere it die, And dying, bring despair. Victory! poor slaves! Exit Mahmud. Voice without. Shout in the jubilee of death! The Greeks Are as a brood of lions in the net Round which the kingly hunters of the earth Stand smiling. Anarchs, ye whose daily food Are curses, groans, and gold, the fruit of death, From Thule to the girdle of the world, Come, feast! the board groans with the flesh of men; The cup is foaming with a nation's blood, Famine and Thirst await! eat, drink, and die! Semichorus I. Victorious Wrong, with vulture scream, Salutes the rising sun, pursues the flying day! I saw her, ghastly as a tyrant's dream, Perch on the trembling pyramid of night, Beneath which earth and all her realms pavilioned lay In visions of the dawning undelight.   Who shall impede her flight?   Who rob her of her prey?   Voice without. Victory! Victory! Russia's famished eagles Dare not to prey beneath the crescent's light. Impale the remnant of the Greeks! despoil! Violate! make their flesh cheaper than dust! Semichorus II. Thou voice which art The herald of the ill in splendour hid! Thou echo of the hollow heart Of monarchy, bear me to thine abode When desolation flashes o'er a world destroyed: Oh, bear me to those isles of jaggd cloud Which float like mountains on the earthquake, mid The momentary oceans of the lightning, Or to some toppling promontory proud Of solid tempest whose black pyramid, Riven, overhangs the founts intensely bright'ning Of those dawn-tinted deluges of fire Before their waves expire, When heaven and earth are light, and only light   In the thunder-night!   Voice without. Victory! Victory! Austria, Russia, England, And that tame serpent, that poor shadow, France, Cry peace, and that means death when monarchs speak. Ho, there! bring torches, sharpen those red stakes, These chains are light, fitter for slaves and poisoners Than Greeks. Kill! plunder! burn! let none remain. Semichorus I.    Alas! for Liberty! If numbers, wealth, or unfulfilling years, Or fate, can quell the free!    Alas! for Virtue, when Torments, or contumely, or the sneers    Of erring judging men   Can break the heart where it abides. Alas! if Love, whose smile makes this obscure world splendid,   Can change with its false times and tides,    Like hope and terror,     Alas for Love! And Truth, who wanderest lone and unbefriended, If thou canst veil thy lie-consuming mirror Before the dazzled eyes of Error, Alas for thee! Image of the Above. Semichorus II.   Repulse, with plumes from conquest torn, Led the ten thousand from the limits of the morn   Through many an hostile Anarchy! At length they wept aloud, and cried, 'The Sea! the Sea!'   Through exile, persecution, and despair,    Rome was, and young Atlantis shall become    The wonder, or the terror, or the tomb Of all whose step wakes Power lulled in her savage lair: But Greece was as a hermit-child,   Whose fairest thoughts and limbs were built To woman's growth, by dreams so mild,   She knew not pain or guilt; And now, O Victory, blush! and Empire, tremble    When ye desert the free    If Greece must be A wreck, yet shall its fragments reassemble, And build themselves again impregnably    In a diviner clime, To Amphionic music on some Cape sublime, Which frowns above the idle foam of Time. Semichorus I. Let the tyrants rule the desert they have made; Let the free possess the Paradise they claim; Be the fortune of our fierce oppressors weighed With our ruin, our resistance, and our name! Semichorus II. Our dead shall be the seed of their decay, Our survivors be the shadow of their pride, Our adversity a dream to pass away Their dishonour a remembrance to abide! Voice without. Victory! Victory! The bought Briton sends The keys of ocean to the Islamite. Now shall the blazon of the cross be veiled, And British skill directing Othman might, Thunder-strike rebel victory. Oh, keep holy This jubilee of unrevengd blood! Kill! crush! despoil! Let not a Greek escape! Semichorus I. Darkness has dawned in the East On the noon of time: The death-birds descend to their feast From the hungry clime. Let Freedom and Peace flee far To a sunnier strand, And follow Love's folding-star To the Evening land! Semichorus II.     The young moon has fed      Her exhausted horn       With the sunset's fire:     The weak day is dead,      But the night is not born; And, like loveliness panting with wild desire While it trembles with fear and delight, Hesperus flies from awakening night, And pants in its beauty and speed with light Fast-flashing, soft, and bright. Thou beacon of love! thou lamp of the free!    Guide us far, far away, To climes where now veiled by the ardour of day     Thou art hidden   From waves on which weary Noon   Faints in her summer swoon,   Between kingless continents sinless as Eden,   Around mountains and islands inviolably     Pranked on the sapphire sea.     Semichorus I. Through the sunset of hope, Like the shapes of a dream, What Paradise islands of glory gleam!   Beneath Heaven's cope, Their shadows more clear float by The sound of their oceans, the light of their sky, The music and fragrance their solitudes breathe Burst, like morning on dream, or like Heaven on death,   Through the walls of our prison; And Greece, which was dead, is arisen! Chorus[7]. The world's great age begins anew, The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn: Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam, Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far; A new Peneus rolls his fountains Against the morning star. Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. A loftier Argo cleaves the main, Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again, And loves, and weeps, and dies. A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore. Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, If earth Death's scroll must be! Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free: Although a subtler Sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew. Another Athens shall arise, And to remoter time Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, The splendour of its prime; And leave, if nought so bright may live, All earth can take or Heaven can give. Saturn and Love their long repose Shall burst[8], more bright and good Than all who fell, than One who rose, Than many unsubdued: Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, But votive tears and symbol flowers. Oh, cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last! Hellas was composed at Pisa in the autumn of 1821, and dispatched to London, November 11. It was published, with the author's name, by C. & J. Ollier in the spring of 1822. A transcript of the poem by Edward Williams is in the Rowfant Library. Note by Mrs. Shelley: 'Hellas was among the last of his compositions, and is among the most beautiful. The choruses are singularly imaginative, and melodious in their versification. There are some stanzas that beautifully exemplify Shelley's peculiar style; as, for instance, the assertion of the intellectual empire which must be for ever the inheritance of the country of Homer, Sophocles, and Plato:-- ''But Greece and her foundations are Built below the tide of war, Based on the crystalline sea Of thought and its eternity.''' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hellas - A Lyrical Drama ,

885:1. Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill. 2. When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes. All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony - and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea. I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence. I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach. Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord. 3. I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement. The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on. My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled. Ah, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my master! 4. Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that thy living touch is upon all my limbs. I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing that thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my mind. I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love in flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart. And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is thy power gives me strength to act. 5. I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards. Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure. 6. Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust. I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and the time of offering go by. Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time. 7. My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers. My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music. 8. The child who is decked with prince's robes and who has jewelled chains round his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his dress hampers him at every step. In fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself from the world, and is afraid even to move. Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keeps one shut off from the healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of the right of entrance to the great fair of common human life. 9. O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders! O beggar, to come beg at thy own door! Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look behind in regret. Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath. It is unholy - take not thy gifts through its unclean hands. Accept only what is offered by sacred love. 10. Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. When I try to bow to thee, my obeisance cannot reach down to the depth where thy feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. Pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the humble among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. My heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the companionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost. 11. Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee! He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the pathmaker is breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and his garment is covered with dust. Put of thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil! Deliverance? Where is this deliverance to be found? Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all for ever. Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense! What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained? Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow. 12. The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long. I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet. It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune. The traveller has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end. My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said 'Here art thou!' The question and the cry 'Oh, where?' melt into tears of a thousand streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance 'I am!' 13. The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day. I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument. The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart. The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by. I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house. The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house. I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet. 14. My desires are many and my cry is pitiful, but ever didst thou save me by hard refusals; and this strong mercy has been wrought into my life through and through. Day by day thou art making me worthy of the simple, great gifts that thou gavest to me unasked - this sky and the light, this body and the life and the mind - saving me from perils of overmuch desire. There are times when I languidly linger and times when I awaken and hurry in search of my goal; but cruelly thou hidest thyself from before me. Day by day thou art making me worthy of thy full acceptance by refusing me ever and anon, saving me from perils of weak, uncertain desire. 15. I am here to sing thee songs. In this hall of thine I have a corner seat. In thy world I have no work to do; my useless life can only break out in tunes without a purpose. When the hour strikes for thy silent worship at the dark temple of midnight, command me, my master, to stand before thee to sing. When in the morning air the golden harp is tuned, honour me, commanding my presence. 16. I have had my invitation to this world's festival, and thus my life has been blessed. My eyes have seen and my ears have heard. It was my part at this feast to play upon my instrument, and I have done all I could. Now, I ask, has the time come at last when I may go in and see thy face and offer thee my silent salutation? 17. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. That is why it is so late and why I have been guilty of such omissions. They come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast; but I evade them ever, for I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. People blame me and call me heedless; I doubt not they are right in their blame. The market day is over and work is all done for the busy. Those who came to call me in vain have gone back in anger. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. 18. Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside at the door all alone? In the busy moments of the noontide work I am with the crowd, but on this dark lonely day it is only for thee that I hope. If thou showest me not thy face, if thou leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I am to pass these long, rainy hours. I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind. 19. If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its head bent low with patience. The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky. Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves. 20. On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded. Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind. That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion. I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart. 21. I must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the shore - Alas for me! The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger. The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall. What emptiness do you gaze upon! Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air with the notes of the far-away song floating from the other shore? 22. In the deep shadows of the rainy July, with secret steps, thou walkest, silent as night, eluding all watchers. Today the morning has closed its eyes, heedless of the insistent calls of the loud east wind, and a thick veil has been drawn over the ever-wakeful blue sky. The woodlands have hushed their songs, and doors are all shut at every house. Thou art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street. Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house - do not pass by like a dream. 23. Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? The sky groans like one in despair. I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend! I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path! By what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading thy course to come to me, my friend? 24. If the day is done, if birds sing no more, if the wind has flagged tired, then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me, even as thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep and tenderly closed the petals of the drooping lotus at dusk. From the traveller, whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage is ended, whose garment is torn and dustladen, whose strength is exhausted, remove shame and poverty, and renew his life like a flower under the cover of thy kindly night. 25. In the night of weariness let me give myself up to sleep without struggle, resting my trust upon thee. Let me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy worship. It is thou who drawest the veil of night upon the tired eyes of the day to renew its sight in a fresher gladness of awakening. 26. He came and sat by my side but I woke not. What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me! He came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my dreams became resonant with its melodies. Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep? 27. Light, oh where is the light? Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame - is such thy fate, my heart? Ah, death were better by far for thee! Misery knocks at thy door, and her message is that thy lord is wakeful, and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night. The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless. I know not what this is that stirs in me - I know not its meaning. A moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight, and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me. Light, oh where is the light! Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void. The night is black as a black stone. Let not the hours pass by in the dark. Kindle the lamp of love with thy life. 28. Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them. Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed. I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room. The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love. My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted. 29. He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow. I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being. 30. I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the silent dark? I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not. He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter. He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company. 31. 'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?' 'It was my master,' said the prisoner. 'I thought I could outdo everybody in the world in wealth and power, and I amassed in my own treasure-house the money due to my king. When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bad that was for my lord, and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.' 'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?' 'It was I,' said the prisoner, 'who forged this chain very carefully. I thought my invincible power would hold the world captive leaving me in a freedom undisturbed. Thus night and day I worked at the chain with huge fires and cruel hard strokes. When at last the work was done and the links were complete and unbreakable, I found that it held me in its grip.' 32. By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free. Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou art not seen. If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love. 33. When it was day they came into my house and said, 'We shall only take the smallest room here.' They said, 'We shall help you in the worship of your God and humbly accept only our own share in his grace'; and then they took their seat in a corner and they sat quiet and meek. But in the darkness of night I find they break into my sacred shrine, strong and turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed the offerings from God's altar. 34. Let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all. Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on every side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love every moment. Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee. Let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy will, and thy purpose is carried out in my life - and that is the fetter of thy love. 35. Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action- Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. 36. This is my prayer to thee, my lord - strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart. Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows. Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service. Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might. Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles. And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love. 37. I thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my power, - that the path before me was closed, that provisions were exhausted and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity. But I find that thy will knows no end in me. And when old words die out on the tongue, new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the old tracks are lost, new country is revealed with its wonders. 38. That I want thee, only thee - let my heart repeat without end. All desires that distract me, day and night, are false and empty to the core. As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry - 'I want thee, only thee'. As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace with all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and still its cry is - 'I want thee, only thee'. 39. When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song. When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest. When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder. 40. The rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid heart. The horizon is fiercely naked - not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower. Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with lashes of lightning startle the sky from end to end. But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and keen and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair. Let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look of the mother on the day of the father's wrath. 41. Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly empty. The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not. Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart. I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden splendour of thy coming - all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze. But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? And only I who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing? 42. Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat, only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our pilgrimage to no country and to no end. In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words. Is the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the evening has come down upon the shore and in the fading light the seabirds come flying to their nests. Who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night? 43. The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee; and entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment of my life. And today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature, I find they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of joys and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten. Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and the steps that I heard in my playroom are the same that are echoing from star to star. 44. This is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer. Messengers, with tidings from unknown skies, greet me and speed along the road. My heart is glad within, and the breath of the passing breeze is sweet. From dawn till dusk I sit here before my door, and I know that of a sudden the happy moment will arrive when I shall see. In the meanwhile I smile and I sing all alone. In the meanwhile the air is filling with the perfume of promise. 45. Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes. Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes. Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes have always proclaimed, 'He comes, comes, ever comes.' In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes, comes, ever comes. In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he comes, comes, ever comes. In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine. - 46. I know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet me. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye. In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret. I know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart. It is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence. 47. The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest in the morning he suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep wearied out. Oh friends, leave the way open to him - forbid him not. If the sounds of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I pray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of birds, by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me sleep undisturbed even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door. Ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish. Ah, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his smile when he stands before me like a dream emerging from darkness of sleep. Let him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all forms. The first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his glance. And let my return to myself be immediate return to him. 48. The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our way and paid no heed. We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We quickened our pave more and more as the time sped by. The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid myself down by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass. My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distant blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through strange, far-away countries. All honour to you, heroic host of the interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation - in the shadow of a dim delight. The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my heart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs. At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard! 49. You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door. I was singing all alone in a corner, and the melody caught your ear. You came down and stood at my cottage door. Masters are many in your hall, and songs are sung there at all hours. But the simple carol of this novice struck at your love. One plaintive little strain mingled with the great music of the world, and with a flower for a prize you came down and stopped at my cottage door. 50. I had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy golden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I wondered who was this King of all kings! My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I stood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on all sides in the dust. The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou camest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at last. Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say 'What hast thou to give to me?' Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I was confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took out the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee. But how great my surprise when at the day's end I emptied my bag on the floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. I bitterly wept and wished that I had had the heart to give thee my all. 51. The night darkened. Our day's works had been done. We thought that the last guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were all shut. Only some said the king was to come. We laughed and said 'No, it cannot be!' It seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but the wind. We put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. Only some said, 'It is the messenger!' We laughed and said 'No, it must be the wind!' There came a sound in the dead of the night. We sleepily thought it was the distant thunder. The earth shook, the walls rocked, and it troubled us in our sleep. Only some said it was the sound of wheels. We said in a drowsy murmur, 'No, it must be the rumbling of clouds!' The night was still dark when the drum sounded. The voice came 'Wake up! delay not!' We pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with fear. Some said, 'Lo, there is the king's flag!' We stood up on our feet and cried 'There is no time for delay!' The king has come - but where are lights, where are wreaths? Where is the throne to seat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame! Where is the hall, the decorations? Someone has said, 'Vain is this cry! Greet him with empty hands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!' Open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of the night has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The thunder roars in the sky. The darkness shudders with lightning. Bring out thy tattered piece of mat and spread it in the courtyard. With the storm has come of a sudden our king of the fearful night. 52. I thought I should ask of thee - but I dared not - the rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two. Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes through the window and spread itself upon thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, 'Woman, what hast thou got?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water - it is thy dreadful sword. I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine. From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world. From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment. No more doll's decorations for me! 53. Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset. It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning up earty sense with one fierce flash. Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold or think of. 54. I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. When thou took'st thy leave I stood silent. I was alone by the well where the shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with their brown earthen pitchers full to the brim. They called me and shouted, 'Come with us, the morning is wearing on to noon.' But I languidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings. I heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thine eyes were sad when they fell on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low - 'Ah, I am a thirsty traveller.' I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my jar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang from the unseen dark, and perfume of babla flowers came from the bend of the road. I stood speecess with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed, what had I done for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that I could give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and enfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings in weary notes, neem leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and think. 55. Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes. Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour among thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass in vain! At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude, my friend is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh awaken! What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun - what if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst - Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours, will not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain? 56. Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast come down to me. O thou lord of all heavens, where would be thy love if I were not? Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my heart is the endless play of thy delight. In my life thy will is ever taking shape. And for this, thou who art the King of kings hast decked thyself in beauty to captivate my heart. And for this thy love loses itself in the love of thy lover, and there art thou seen in the perfect union of two. 57. Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light! Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth. The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light. The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion. Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. The heaven's river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad. 58. Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song - the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word. 59. Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, O beloved of my heart - this golden light that dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds sailing across the sky, this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead. The morning light has flooded my eyes - this is thy message to my heart. Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my heart has touched thy feet. 60. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances. They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. they seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the patess sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children. 61. The sleep that flits on baby's eyes - does anybody know from where it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two timid buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss baby's eyes. The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps - does anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning - the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps. The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs - does anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love - the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs. 62. When I bring to you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints - when I give coloured toys to you, my child. When I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth - when I sing to make you dance. When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice - when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands. When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body - when I kiss you to make you smile. 63. Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest. Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the one in the play of many. 64. On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her, 'Maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle? My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light!' she raised her dark eyes for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk. 'I have come to the river,' she said, 'to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.' I stood alone among tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide. In the silence of gathering night I asked her, 'Maiden, your lights are all lit - then where do you go with your lamp? My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light.' She raised her dark eyes on my face and stood for a moment doubtful. 'I have come,' she said at last, 'to dedicate my lamp to the sky.' I stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void. In the moonless gloom of midnight I ask her, 'Maiden, what is your quest, holding the lamp near your heart? My house is all dark and lonesome- - lend me your light.' She stopped for a minute and thought and gazed at my face in the dark. 'I have brought my light,' she said, 'to join the carnival of lamps.' I stood and watched her little lamp uselessly lost among lights. 65. What divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of my life? My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal harmony? Thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to them. Thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own entire sweetness in me. 66. She who ever had remained in the depth of my being, in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her veils in the morning light, will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song. Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain. I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life. Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart. many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in despair. There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition. 67. Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the soul with colours and sounds and odours. There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest. But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word. 68. Thy sunbeam comes upon this earth of mine with arms outstretched and stands at my door the livelong day to carry back to thy feet clouds made of my tears and sighs and songs. With fond delight thou wrappest about thy starry breast that mantle of misty cloud, turning it into numberless shapes and folds and colouring it with hues everchanging. It is so light and so fleeting, tender and tearful and dark, that is why thou lovest it, O thou spotless and serene. And that is why it may cover thy awful white light with its pathetic shadows. 69. The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment. 70. Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy? All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can hold them back, they rush on. Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and pass away - colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment. 71. That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus casting coloured shadows on thy radiance - such is thy maya. Thou settest a barrier in thine own being and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes. This thy self-separation has taken body in me. The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloured tears and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again, dreams break and form. In me is thy own defeat of self. This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures with the brush of the night and the day. Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves, casting away all barren lines of straightness. The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky. With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant, and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me. 72. He it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches. He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain. He it is who weaves the web of this maya in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green, and lets peep out through the folds his feet, at whose touch I forget myself. Days come and ages pass, and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow. 73. Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight. Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim. My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and place them before the altar of thy temple. No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight. Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my desires ripen into fruits of love. 74. The day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill my pitcher. The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river. I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his lute. 75. Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee undiminished. The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and hamlets; yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy feet. The flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last service is to offer itself to thee. Thy worship does not impoverish the world. From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them; yet their last meaning points to thee. 76. Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to face. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before thee face to face. Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face. In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with struggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to face. And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings, alone and speecess shall I stand before thee face to face. 77. I know thee as my God and stand apart - I do not know thee as my own and come closer. I know thee as my father and bow before thy feet- I do not grasp thy hand as my friend's. I stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine, there to clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade. Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers, but I heed them not, I divide not my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee. In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus stand by thee. I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the great waters of life. 78. When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang 'Oh, the picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!' But one cried of a sudden - 'It seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.' The golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and they cried in dismay - 'Yes, that lost star was the best, she was the glory of all heavens!' From that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes on from one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy! Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among themselves - 'Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!' 79. If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained nothing - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me - let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. 80. I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and years separated from thee. If this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders. And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent. 81. On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands. Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness. I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers. 82. Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait. Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower. We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chances. We are too poor to be late. And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I find that yet there is time. 83. Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow. The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine will hang upon thy breast. Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to withhold them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace. 84. It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky. It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July. It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet's heart. 85. When the warriors came out first from their master's hall, where had they hid their power? Where were their armour and their arms? They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them on the day they came out from their master's hall. When the warriors marched back again to their master's hall where did they hide their power? They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow; peace was on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind them on the day they marched back again to their master's hall. 86. Death, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and brought thy call to my home. The night is dark and my heart is fearful - yet I will take up the lamp, open my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who stands at my door. I will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart. He will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my morning; and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my last offering to thee. 87. In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I find her not. My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained. But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have to come to thy door. I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy face. I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish - no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears. Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe. 88. Deity of the ruined temple! The broken strings of Vina sing no more your praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of worship. The air is still and silent about you. In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings the tidings of flowers - the flowers that for your worship are offered no more. Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused. In the eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust, he wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart. Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple. Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit. Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the holy stream of oblivion when their time is come. Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deatess neglect. 89. No more noisy, loud words from me - such is my master's will. Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song. Men hasten to the King's market. All the buyers and sellers are there. But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work. Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time; and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum. Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence! 90. On the day when death will knock at thy door what wilt thou offer to him? Oh, I will set before my guest the full vessel of my life - I will never let him go with empty hands. All the sweet vintage of all my autumn days and summer nights, all the earnings and gleanings of my busy life will I place before him at the close of my days when death will knock at my door. 91. O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, my death, come and whisper to me! Day after day I have kept watch for thee; for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life. All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy. One final glance from thine eyes and my life will be ever thine own. The flowers have been woven and the garland is ready for the bridegroom. After the wedding the bride shall leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night. 92. I know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost, and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes. Yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains. When I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments breaks and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures. Rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives. Things that I longed for in vain and things that I got - let them pass. Let me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked. 93. I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door - and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words from you. We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons has come and I am ready for my journey. 94. At this time of my parting, wish me good luck, my friends! The sky is flushed with the dawn and my path lies beautiful. Ask not what I have with me to take there. I start on my journey with empty hands and expectant heart. I shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is not the red-brown dress of the traveller, and though there are dangers on the way I have no fear in mind. The evening star will come out when my voyage is done and the plaintive notes of the twilight melodies be struck up from the King's gateway. 95. I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight! When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well. The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away, in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation. 96. When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable. I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean of light, and thus am I blessed - let this be my parting word. In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I caught sight of him that is formless. My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch; and if the end comes here, let it come - let this be my parting word. 97. When my play was with thee I never questioned who thou wert. I knew nor shyness nor fear, my life was boisterous. In the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own comrade and lead me running from glade to glade. On those days I never cared to know the meaning of songs thou sangest to me. Only my voice took up the tunes, and my heart danced in their cadence. Now, when the playtime is over, what is this sudden sight that is come upon me? The world with eyes bent upon thy feet stands in awe with all its silent stars. 98. I will deck thee with trophies, garlands of my defeat. It is never in my power to escape unconquered. I surely know my pride will go to the wall, my life will burst its bonds in exceeding pain, and my empty heart will sob out in music like a hollow reed, and the stone will melt in tears. I surely know the hundred petals of a lotus will not remain closed for ever and the secret recess of its honey will be bared. From the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon me and summon me in silence. Nothing will be left for me, nothing whatever, and utter death shall I receive at thy feet. 99. When I give up the helm I know that the time has come for thee to take it. What there is to do will be instantly done. Vain is this struggle. Then take away your hands and silently put up with your defeat, my heart, and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still where you are placed. These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, and trying to light them I forget all else again and again. But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark, spreading my mat on the floor; and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, come silently and take thy seat here. 100. I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless. No more sailing from harbour to harbour with this my weather-beaten boat. The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves. And now I am eager to die into the deatess. Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music of toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life. I shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its last utterance, lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent. 101. Ever in my life have I sought thee with my songs. It was they who led me from door to door, and with them have I felt about me, searching and touching my world. It was my songs that taught me all the lessons I ever learnt; they showed me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the horizon of my heart. They guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of pleasure and pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have the brought me in the evening at the end of my journey? 102. I boasted among men that I had known you. They see your pictures in all works of mine. They come and ask me, 'Who is he?' I know not how to answer them. I say, 'Indeed, I cannot tell.' They blame me and they go away in scorn. And you sit there smiling. I put my tales of you into lasting songs. The secret gushes out from my heart. They come and ask me, 'Tell me all your meanings.' I know not how to answer them. I say, 'Ah, who knows what they mean!' They smile and go away in utter scorn. And you sit there smiling. 103. In one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet. Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee. Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee. Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one salutation to thee. In the introduction to Gitanjali, W.B Yeats says of Tagores poetry. At every moment the heart of this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it has known that they will understand; and it has filled itself with the circumstance of their lives. An innocence, a simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the changes of the seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them and us. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali ,

886:The Door Of Humility ENGLAND We lead the blind by voice and hand, And not by light they cannot see; We are not framed to understand The How and Why of such as He; But natured only to rejoice At every sound or sign of hope, And, guided by the still small voice, In patience through the darkness grope; Until our finer sense expands, And we exchange for holier sight The earthly help of voice and hands, And in His light behold the Light. Let there be Light! The self-same Power That out of formless dark and void Endued with life's mysterious dower Planet, and star, and asteroid; That moved upon the waters' face, And, breathing on them His intent, Divided, and assigned their place To, ocean, air, and firmament; That bade the land appear, and bring Forth herb and leaf, both fruit and flower, Cattle that graze, and birds that sing, Ordained the sunshine and the shower; That, moulding man and woman, breathed In them an active soul at birth In His own image, and bequeathed To them dominion over Earth; That, by whatever is, decreed 418 His Will and Word shall be obeyed, From loftiest star to lowliest seed;The worm and me He also made. And when, for nuptials of the Spring With Summer, on the vestal thorn The bridal veil hung flowering, A cry was heard, and I was born. II To be by blood and long descent A member of a mighty State, Whose greatness, sea-girt, but unpent By ocean, makes the world more great; That, ranging limitless, hath won A Rule more wide than that of Rome, And, journeying onward with the sun, In every zone hath found a home; That, keeping old traditions fast, Still hails the things that are to be, And, firmly rooted in the Past, On Law hath grafted Liberty;That is a birthright nobler far Than princely claim or Right Divine From far-off rapine, wanton war, And I could feel this birthright mine. And not the lowliest hand that drives Or share or loom, if so it be Of British strain, but thence derives A patent of nobility. III The guiding of the infant years Onward to good, away from guile, A mother's humanising tears, A father's philosophic smile; 419 Refining beauty, gentle ways, The admonitions of the wise, The love that watches, helps, and prays, And pities, but doth ne'er despise; An ancient Faith, abiding hope, The charity that suffers long, But flames with sacred zeal to cope With man's injustice, nature's wrong; Melodious leisure, learnëd shelf, Discourse of earnest, temperate mind, The playful wit that of itself Flashes, but leaves no wound behind; The knowledge gleaned from Greece and Rome, From studious Teuton, sprightly Gaul, The lettered page, the mellow tome, And poets' wisdom more than all;These, when no lips severe upbraid, But counsel rather than control, In budding boyhood lend their aid To sensibility of soul. IV But, more than mentor, mother, sire, Can lend to shape the future man With help of learning or of lyre, Of ancient rule, or modern plan, Is that which with our breath we bring Into the world, we know not whence, That needs nor care nor fostering, Because an instinct and a sense. And days and years are all forgot When Nature's aspect, growth, and grace, And veering moods, to me were not The features of the Loved One's face. 420 The The The The cloud whose shadow skims the lake, shimmering haze of summer noon, voice of April in the brake, silence of the mounting moon, Swaying of bracken on the hill, The murmur of the vagrant stream, These motions of some unseen Will, These babblings of some heavenly dream, Seemed tokens of divine desire To hold discourse with me, and so To touch my lips with hallowed fire, And tell me things I ought to know. I gazed and listened, all intent, As to the face and voice of Fate, But what they said, or what they meant, I could surmise not, nor translate. They did but lure me to unrest, Unanswered questioning, longings vain, As when one scans some palimpsest No erudition can explain; But left me with a deep distaste For common speech, that still did seem More meaningless than mountain waste, Less human than the far-off stream. So that a stranger in the land Wherein I moved, where'er I went, I dwelt, whom none could understand, Or exorcise my discontent. And I to them, and they to me Seemed from two different planets come, And, save to flower and wild-bird's glee, My heart was deaf, my soul was dumb. 421 But slowly dawned a happier time When I began to apprehend, And catch, as in some poet's rhyme, The intimations of a friend; When Nature spake no unknown tongue, But language kindred to my thought, Till everything She said, I sung, In notes unforced, in words unsought. And I to Her so closely drew, The seasons round, in mind and mood, I felt at length as if we knew Self-same affection, self-same feud: That both alike scorned worldly aim, Profit, applause, parade, and pride, Whereby the love of generous fame And worthy deeds grows petrified. I did as yet not understand Nature is far more vast than I, Deep as the ocean, wide as land, And overarching as the sky; And but responded to my call, And only felt and fed my need, Because She doth the same for all Who to her pity turn and plead. VI Shall man have mind, and Nature none, Shall I, not she, have soul and heart? Nay, rather, if we be not one, Each is of each the counterpart. She too may have within her breast A conscience, if not like to yours, A sense of rightness ill at rest, Long as her waywardness endures. 422 And hence her thunder, earthquakes, hail, Her levin bolts, her clouds' discharge: She sins upon a larger scale, Because She is herself more large. Hence, too, when She hath pierced with pain The heart of man, and wrecked his years, The pity of the April rain, And late repentance of her tears. She is no better, worse, than we; We can but say she seems more great, That half her will, like ours, is free, And half of it is locked in Fate. Nor need we fear that we should err Beyond our scope in reasoning thus,That there must be a God for Her, If that there be a God for us. VII The chiming of the Sabbath bell, The silence of the Sabbath fields, Over the hamlet cast a spell To which the gracious spirit yields. Sound is there none of wheel or wain, Husht stands the anvil, husht the forge, No shout is heard in rustic lane, No axe resounds in timbered gorge. No flail beats time on granary floor, The windmill's rushing wings are stayed, And children's glee rings out no more From hedgerow bank or primrose glade. The big-boned team that firm and slow Draw yoked, are free to couch or stray; The basking covey seem to know None will invade their peace to-day. 423 And speckless swains, and maidens neat, Through rustic porch, down cottage stair, Demurely up the village street Stream onward to the House of Prayer. They kneel as they were taught to kneel In childhood, and demand not why, But, as they chant or answer, feel A vague communion with the sky. VIII But when the impetuous mind is spurred To range through epochs great but gone, And, heedless of dogmatic word, With fearless ardour presses on, Confronting pulpit, sceptre, shrine, With point by Logic beaten out, And, questioning tenets deemed divine With human challenge, human doubt, Hoists Reason's sail, and for the haze Of ocean quits Tradition's shore, Awhile he comes, and kneels, and prays, Then comes and kneels, but prays no more; And only for the love he bears To those who love him, and who reared His frame to genuflexion, shares In ritual, vain, if still revered. His Gods are many or are none, Saturn and Mithra, Christ and Jove, Consorting, as the Ages run, With Vestal choir or Pagan drove. Abiding still by Northern shores, He sees far off on Grecian coast Veiled Aphrodite, but adores Minerva and Apollo most. 424 Beauty of vision, voice, and mind, Enthrall him so, that unto him All Creeds seem true, if he but find Siren, or saint, or seraphim. And thus once more he dwells apart, His inward self enswathed in mist, Blending with poet's pious heart The dreams of pagan Hedonist. IX If Beauty be the Spirit's quest, Its adoration, creed, and shrine, Wherein its restlessness finds rest, And earthly type of the Divine, Must there for such not somewhere be A blending of all beauteous things In some one form wherein we see The sum of our imaginings? The smile on mountain's musing brow, Sunrise and sunset, moon and star, Wavelets around the cygnet's prow, Glamour anear and charm afar; The silence of the silvery pool, Autumn's reserve and Summer's fire, Slow vanishings of Winter's rule To free full voice of April's choir;The worshippers of Beauty find In maiden form, and face, and tress; Faint intimations of her mind And undulating loveliness. Bound, runnels, bound, bound on, and flow! Sing, merle and mavis, pair and sing! 425 Gone is the Winter, fled the snow, And all that lives is flushed with Spring. Harry the woods, young truant folk, For flowers to deck your cottage sills, And, underneath my orchard oak, Cluster, ye golden daffodils! Unfettered by domestic vow, Cuckoo, proclaim your vagrant loves, And coo upon the self-same bough, Inseparable turtle-doves. Soar, laverock, soar on song to sky, And with the choir of Heaven rejoice! You cannot be more glad than I, Who feel Her gaze, and hear Her voice: Who see Her cheek more crimson glow, And through Her veins love's current stream, And feel a fear She doth but know Is kin to joy and dawning dream. Bound, rivulets, bound, bound on, and flow! Sing, merle and mavis, pair and sing! Gone from the world are want and woe, And I myself am one with Spring. XI They err who say that Love is blind, Or, if it be, 'tis but in part, And that, if for fair face it find No counterpart in mind and heart, It dwells on that which it beholds, Fair fleshly vision void of soul, Deeming, illusioned, this enfolds, Longing's fulfilment, end, and whole. Were such my hapless carnal lot, I too might evanescent bliss 426 Embrace, fierce-fancied, fast forgot, Then leave for some fresh loveliness. But April gaze, and Summer tress, With something of Autumnal thought, In Her seem blent to crown and bless A bond I long in dreams have sought. She looks as though She came to grace The earth, from world less soiled than this, Around her head and virgin face Halo of heavenly holiness. XII He who hath roamed through various lands, And, wheresoe'er his steps are set, The kindred meaning understands Of spire, and dome, and minaret; By Roman river, Stamboul's sea, In Peter's or Sophia's shrine, Acknowledges with reverent knee The presence of the One Divine; Who, to the land he loves so well Returning, towards the sunset hour Wends homeward, feels yet stronger spell In lichened roof and grey church-tower; Round whose foundations, side by side, Sleep hamlet wit and village sage, While loud the blackbird cheers his bride Deep in umbrageous Vicarage. XIII Was it that sense which some aver Foreshadows Fate it doth not see, That gave unwittingly to Her The name, for ever dear to me, 427 Borne by that tearful Mother whom, Nigh unto Ostia's shelving sand, Augustine laid in lonely tomb, Ere sailing for his Afric land? But I at least should have foreseen, When Monica to me had grown Familiar word, that names may mean More than by word and name is shown; That nought can keep two lives apart More than divorce 'twixt mind and mind, Even though heart be one with heart;Alas! Alas! Yes, Love is blind. XIV How could I think of jarring Creeds, And riddles that unread remain, Or ask if Heaven's indulgence heeds Broils born of man's polemic brain, And pause because my venturous mind Had roamed through tracks of polar thought, Whence mightiest spirits turn back blind, Since finding not the thing they sought, When Love, with luring gifts in hand, Beauty, refinement, smile, caress, Heart to surmise and understand, And crowning grace of holiness, Stood there before me, and, with gaze I had been purblind not to see, Said, ``I to you will, all my days, Give what you yearn to give to me''? Must both then sorrow, while we live, Because, rejoicing, I forgot Something there was I could not give, Because, alas! I had it not. 428 XV She comes from Vicarage Garden, see! Radiant as morning, lithe and tall, Fresh lilies in her hand, but She The loveliest lily of them all. The thrushes in their fluting pause, The bees float humming round her head, Earth, air, and heaven shine out because They hear her voice, and feel her tread. Up in the fretted grey church-tower, That rustic gaze for miles can see, The belfry strikes the silvery hour, Announcing her propinquity. And I who, fearful to be late, Passed long since through the deerpark pale, And loitered by the churchyard gate, Once more exclaim, ``Hail! loved one! hail!'' We pass within, and up the nave, Husht, because Heaven seems always there, Wend choirward, where, devoutly grave, She kneels, to breathe a silent prayer. She takes the flowers I too have brought, Blending them deftly with her own, And ranges them, as quick as thought, Around the white-draped altar-throne. How could she know my gaze was not On things unseen, but fixed on Her, That, as She prayed, I all forgot The worship in the worshipper?While She beheld, as in a glass, The Light Divine, that I but sought Sight of her soul?-Alas! Alas! Love is yet blinder than I thought. 429 XVI Who hath not seen a little cloud Up from the clear horizon steal, And, mounting lurid, mutter loud Premonitory thunder-peal? Husht grows the grove, the summer leaf Trembles and writhes, as if in pain, And then the sky, o'ercharged with grief, Bursts into drenching tears of rain. I through the years had sought to hide My darkening doubts from simple sight. 'Tis sacrilegious to deride Faith of unquestioning neophyte. And what, methought, is Doubt at best? A sterile wind through seeded sedge Blowing for nought, an empty nest That lingers in a leafless hedge. Pain, too, there is we should not share With others lest it mar their joy; There is a quiet bliss in prayer None but the heartless would destroy. But just as Love is quick divined From heightened glow or visage pale, The meditations of the Mind Disclose themselves through densest veil. And 'tis the unloving and least wise Who through life's inmost precincts press, And with unsympathetic eyes Outrage our sacred loneliness. Then, when their sacrilegious gaze The mournful void hath half surmised, To some more tender soul they raise The veil of ignorance it prized. 430 XVII `What though I write farewell I could Not utter, lest your gaze should chide, 'Twill by your love be understood My love is still, dear, at your side. ``Nor must we meet to speak goodbye, Lest that my Will should lose its choice, And conscience waver, for then I Should see your face and hear your voice. ``But, when you find yourself once more, Come back, come back and look for me, Beside the little lowly door, The Doorway of Humility.'' XVIII There! Peace at last! The far-off roar Of human passion dies away. ``Welcome to our broad shade once more,'' The waning woodlands seem to say: The music of the vagrant wind, That wandered aimlessly, is stilled; The songless branches all remind That Summer's glory is fulfilled. The fluttering of the falling leaves Dimples the leaden pool awhile; So Age impassively receives Youth's tale of troubles with a smile. Thus, as the seasons steal away, How much is schemed, how little done, What splendid plans at break of day! What void regrets at set of sun! The world goes round, for you, for me, For him who sleeps, for him who strives, And the cold Fates indifferent see 431 Crowning or failure of our lives. Then fall, ye leaves, fade, summer breeze! Grow, sedges, sere on every pool! Let each old glowing impulse freeze, Let each old generous project cool! It is not wisdom, wit, nor worth, Self-sacrifice nor friendship true, Makes venal devotees of earth Prostrate themselves and worship you. The consciousness of sovran powers, The stubborn purpose, steadfast will, Have ever, in this world of ours, Achieved success, achieve it still. Farewell, ye woods! No more I sit; Great voices in the distance call. If this be peace, enough of it! I go. Fall, unseen foliage, fall! XIX Nay, but repress rebellious woe! In grief 'tis not that febrile fool, Passion, that can but overthrow, But Resignation, that should rule. In patient sadness lurks a gift To purify the life it stings, And, as the days move onward, lift The lonely heart to loftier things; Bringing within one's ripening reach The sceptre of majestic Thought, Wherefrom one slowly learns to teach The Wisdom to oneself it taught. And unto what can man aspire, On earth, more worth the striving for, Than to be Reason's loftier lyre, 432 And reconciling monitor; To strike a more resounding string And deeper notes of joy and pain, Than such as but lamenting sing, Or warble but a sensuous strain: So, when my days are nearly sped, And my last harvest labours done, That I may have around my head The halo of a setting sun. Yet even if be heard above Such selfish hope, presumptuous claim, Better one hour of perfect love Than an eternity of Fame! XX Where then for grief seek out the cure? What scenes will bid my smart to cease? High peaks should teach one to endure, And lakes secluded bring one peace. Farewell awhile, then, village bells, Autumnal wood and harvest wain! And welcome, as it sinks or swells, The music of the mighty main, That seems to say, now loud, now low, Rising or falling, sweet or shrill, ``I pace, a sentry, to and fro, To guard your Island fortress still.'' The roses falter on their stalk, The late peach reddens on the wall, The flowers along the garden walk Unheeded fade, unheeded fall. My gates unopened drip with rain, The wolf-hound wends from floor to floor, And, listening for my voice in vain, 433 Waileth along the corridor. Within the old accustomed place Where we so oft were wont to be, Kneeling She prays, while down her face The fruitless tears fall silently. SWITZERLAND XXI Rain, wind, and rain. The writhing lake Scuds to and fro to scape their stroke: The mountains veil their heads, and make Of cloud and mist a wintry cloak. Through where the arching pinewoods make Dusk cloisters down the mountain side, The loosened avalanches take Valeward their way, with death for guide, And toss their shaggy manes and fling To air their foam and tawny froth, From ledge and precipice bound and spring, With hungry roar and deepening wrath; Till, hamlet homes and orchards crushed, And, rage for further ravin stayed, They slumber, satiated, husht, Upon the ruins they have made. I rise from larch-log hearth, and, lone, Gaze on the spears of serried rain, That faster, nigher, still are blown, Then stream adown the window pane. The peasant's goatskin garments drip, As home he wends with lowered head, Shakes off the drops from lid and lip, Then slinks within his châlet shed. 434 The cattle bells sound dull and hoarse, The boats rock idly by the shore; Only the swollen torrents course With faster feet and fuller roar. Mournful, I shape a mournful song, And ask the heavens, but ask in vain, ``How long, how long?'' Ah! not so long As, in my heart, rain, wind, and rain. XXII I ask the dark, the dawn, the sun, The domeward-pointing peaks of snow, Lofty and low alike, but none Will tell me what I crave to know. My mind demands, ``Whence, Whither, Why?'' From mountain slope and green defile, And wait the answer. The replyA far-off irresponsive smile. I ask the stars, when mortals sleep, The pensive moon, the lonely winds; But, haply if they know, they keep The secret of secluded minds. Shall I in Straining Where in Where in vain, then, strive to find, towards merely fancied goal? the lily lurks the mind, the rose discern the soul? More mindless still, stream, pasture, lake, The mountains yet more heartless seem, And life's unceasing quest and ache Only a dream within a dream. We know no more, though racked with thought Than he who, in yon châlet born, Gives not the riddle, Life, a thought, But lays him down and sleeps till morn. 435 Sometimes he kneels; I cannot kneel, So suffer from a wider curse Than Eden's outcasts, for I feel An exile in the universe. The rudeness of his birth enures His limbs to every season's stings, And, never probing, so endures The sadness at the heart of things. When lauwine growls, and thunder swells, Their far-off clamour sounds to me But as the noise of clanging bells Above a silent sanctuary. It is their silence that appals, Their aspect motionless that awes, When searching spirit vainly calls On the effect to bare the Cause. I get no answer, near or far; The mountains, though they soar so high, And scale the pathless ether, are No nearer unto God than I. There dwells nor mystery nor veil Round the clear peaks no foot hath trod; I, gazing on their frontage pale, See but the waning ghost of God. Is Faith then but a drug for sleep, And Hope a fondly soothing friend That bids us, when it sees us weep, Wait for the End that hath no end? Then do I hear voice unforgot Wailing across the distance dim, ``Think, dear! If God existeth not, Why are you always seeking Him?'' XXIII 436 Like glowing furnace of the forge, How the winds rise and roar, as they Up twisting valley, craggy gorge, Seek, and still seek, to storm their way; Then, baffled, up the open slope With quickening pulses scale and pant, Indomitably bent to cope With bristling fronts of adamant. All through the day resounds the strife, Then doth at sunset hour subside: So the fierce passions of our life Slowly expire at eventide. By Nature we are ne'er misled; We see most truly when we dream. A singer wise was he who said, ``Follow the gleam! Follow the gleam!'' XXIV I dreamed, last night, again I stood, Silent, without the village shrine, While She in modest maidenhood Left, fondly clasped, her hand in mine. And, with a face as cerecloth white, And tears like those that by the bier Of loved one lost make dim the sight, She poured her sorrows in mine ear. ``I love your voice, I love your gaze, But there is something dearer still, The faith that kneels, the hope that prays, And bows before the Heavenly Will. ``Not where hills rise, or torrents roll, Seek Him, nor yet alone, apart; He dwells within the troubled soul, His home is in the human heart. 437 ``Withal, the peaceful mountains may 'Twixt doubt and yearning end the strife: So ponder, though you cannot pray, And think some meaning into life: ``Nor like to those that cross the main To wander witless through strange land, Hearing unmastered tongues, disdain The speech they do not understand. ``Firm stands my faith that they who sound The depths of doubt Faith yet will save: They are like children playing round A still remembered mother's grave; ``Not knowing, when they wax more old, And somewhat can her vision share, She will the winding-sheet unfold, And beckon them to evening prayer.'' Then, with my hand betwixt her hands, She laid her lips upon my brow, And, as to one who understands, Said, ``Take once more my vestal vow. ``No other gaze makes mine to glow, No other footstep stirs my heart, To me you only dearer grow, Dearer and nearer, more apart. ``Whene'er you come with humble mind, The little Door stands open wide, And, bending low, you still will find Me waiting on the other side.'' Her silence woke me. . . . To your breast Fold me, O sleep! and seal mine ears; That She may roam through my unrest Till all my dreams are drenched with tears! XXV 438 Why linger longer, subject, here, Where Nature sits and reigns alone, Inspiring love not, only fear, Upon her autocratic throne? Her edicts are the rigid snow, The wayward winds, the swaying branch; She hath no pity to bestow, Her law the lawless avalanche. Though soon cascades will bound and sing, That now but drip with tears of ice, And upland meadows touched by Spring Blue gentian blend with edelweiss, Hence to the Land of youthful dreams, The Land that taught me all I know. Farewell, lone mountain-peaks and streams; Yet take my thanks before I go. You gave me shelter when I fled, But sternly bade me stem my tears, Nor aimless roam with rustling tread 'Mong fallen leaves of fruitless years. ITALY XXVI Upon the topmost wheel-track steep, The parting of two nations' ways, Athwart stone cross engraven deep, The name ``Italia'' greets the gaze! I trembled, when I saw it first, With joy, my boyish longings fed, The headspring of my constant thirst, The altar of my pilgrim tread. Now once again the magic word, So faintly borne to Northern home, Sounds like a silvery trumpet heard 439 Beneath some universal dome. The forests soften to a smile, A smile the very mountains wear, Through mossy gorge and grassed defile Torrents race glad and debonair. From casement, balcony and door, Hang golden gourds, droops tear-tipped vine, And sun-bronzed faces bask before Thin straw-swathed flasks of last year's wine. Unyoked, the patient sleek-skinned steers Take, like their lords, no heed of time. Hark! now the evening star appears, Ave Maria belfries chime. The maidens knit, and glance, and sing, With glowing gaze 'neath ebon tress, And, like to copse-buds sunned by Spring, Seem burgeoning into tenderness. On waveless lake where willows weep, The Borromean Islands rest As motionless as babe asleep Upon a slumbering Mother's breast. O Land of sunshine, song, and Love! Whether thy children reap or sow, Of Love they chant on hills above, Of Love they sing in vale below. But what avail the love-linked hands, And love-lit eyes, to them that roam Passionless through impassioned lands, Since they have left their heart at home! XXVII Among my dreams, now known as dreams In this my reawakened life, I thought that by historic streams, 440 Apart from stress, aloof from strife, By rugged paths that twist and twine Through olive slope and chesnut wood Upward to mediaeval shrine, Or high conventual brotherhood, Along the mountain-curtained track Round peaceful lake where wintry bands Halt briefly but to bivouac Ere blustering on to Northern lands;Through these, through all I first did see, With me to share my raptures none, That nuptialled Monica would be My novice and companion: That we should float from mere to mere, And sleep within some windless cove, With nightingales to lull the ear, From ilex wood and orange grove; Linger at hamlets lost to fame, That still wise-wandering feet beguile, To gaze on frescoed wall or frame Lit by Luini's gracious smile. Now, but companioned by my pain, Among each well-remembered scene I can but let my Fancy feign The happiness that might have been; Imagine that I hear her voice, Imagine that I feel her hand, And I, enamoured guide, rejoice To see her swift to understand. Alack! Imagination might As lief with rustic Virgil roam, Reverent, or, welcomed guest, alight At Pliny's philosophic home; 441 Hear one majestically trace Rome's world-wide sway from wattled wall, And read upon the other's face The omens of an Empire's fall. XXVIII Like moonlight seen through forest leaves, She shines upon me from afar, What time men reap the ripened sheaves, And Heaven rains many a falling star. I gaze up to her lofty height, And feel how far we dwell apart: O if I could, this night, this night, Fold her full radiance to my heart! But She in Heaven, and I on earth, Still journey on, but each alone; She, maiden Queen of sacred birth, Who with no consort shares her throne. XXIX What if She ever thought She saw The self within myself prefer Communion with the silent awe Of far-off mountains more than Her; That Nature hath the mobile grace To make life with our moods agree, And so had grown the Loved One's face, Since it nor checked nor chided me; Or from the tasks that irk and tire I sought for comfort from the Muse, Because it grants the mind's desire All that familiar things refuse. How vain such thought! The face, the form, Of mountain summits but express, Clouded or clear, in sun or storm, 442 Feebly Her spirit's loftiness. Did I explore from pole to pole, In Nature's aspect I should find But faint reflections of Her soul, Dim adumbrations of Her mind. O come and test with lake, with stream, With mountain, which the stronger be, Thou, my divinest dearest dream, My Muse, and more than Muse, to me! XXX They tell me that Jehovah speaks In silent grove, on lonely strand, And summit of the mountain peaks; Yet there I do not understand. The stars, disdainful of my thought, Majestic march toward their goal, And to my nightly watch have brought No explanation to my soul. The truth I seek I cannot find, In air or sky, on land or sea; If the hills have their secret mind, They will not yield it up to me: Like one who lost mid lonely hills Still seeks but cannot find his way, Since guide is none save winding rills, That seem themselves, too, gone astray. And so from rise to set of sun, At glimmering dawn, in twilight haze, I but behold the face of One Who veils her face, and weeps, and prays. What know I that She doth not know? What I know not, She understands: With heavenly gifts She overflows, 443 While I have only empty hands. O weary wanderer! Best forego This questioning of wind and wave. For you the sunshine and the snow, The womb, the cradle, and the grave. XXXI How blest, when organ concords swell, And anthems are intoned, are they Who neither reason nor rebel, But meekly bow their heads and pray. And such the peasants mountain-bred, Who hail to-day with blithe accord Her Feast Who to the Angel said, ``Behold the Handmaid of the Lord!'' Downward they wind from pastoral height, Or hamlet grouped round shattered towers, To wend to shrine more richly dight, And bring their gift of wilding flowers; Their gifts, their griefs, their daily needs, And lay these at Her statue's base, Who never, deem they, intercedes Vainly before the Throne of Grace. Shall I, because I stand apart, A stranger to their pious vows, Scorn their humility of heart That pleads before the Virgin Spouse, Confiding that the Son will ne'er, If in His justice wroth with them, Refuse to harken to Her prayer Who suckled Him in Bethlehem? Of all the intercessors born By man's celestial fancy, none 444 Hath helped the sorrowing, the forlorn, Lowly and lone, as She hath done. The maiden faithful to Her shrine Bids demons of temptation flee, And mothers fruitful as the vine Retain their vestal purity. Too trustful love, by lust betrayed, And by cold worldlings unforgiven, Unto Her having wept and prayed, Faces its fate, consoled and shriven. The restless, fiercely probing mind No honey gleans, though still it stings. What comfort doth the spirit find In Reason's endless reasonings? They have no solace for my grief, Compassion none for all my pain: They toss me like the fluttering leaf, And leave me to the wind and rain. XXXII If Conscience be God's Law to Man, Then Conscience must perforce arraign Whatever falls beneath the ban Of that allotted Suzerain. And He, who bids us not to swerve, Whither the wayward passions draw, From its stern sanctions, must observe The limits of the self-same Law. Yet, if obedient Conscience scan The sum of wrongs endured and done Neither by act nor fault of Man, They rouse it to rebellion. Life seems of life by life bereft 445 Through some immitigable curse, And Man sole moral being left In a non-moral Universe. My Conscience would my Will withstand, Did Will project a world like this: Better Eternal vacuum still, Than murder, lust, and heartlessness! If Man makes Conscience, then being good Is only being worldly wise, And universal brotherhood A comfortable compromise. O smoke of War! O blood-steeped sod! O groans of fratricidal strife! Who will explain the ways of God, That I may be at peace with life! The moral riddle 'tis that haunts, Primeval and unending curse, Racking the mind when pulpit vaunts A Heaven-created Universe. Yet whence came Life, and how begin? Rolleth the globe by choice or chance? Dear Lord! Why longer shut me in This prison-house of ignorance! FLORENCE XXXIII City acclaimed ere Dante's days Fair, and baptized in field of flowers, Once more I scan with tender gaze Your glistening domes, your storied towers. I feel as if long years had flown Since first with eager heart I came, 446 And, girdled by your mountain zone, Found you yet fairer than your fame. It was the season purple-sweet When figs are plump, and grapes are pressed, And all your sons with following feet Bore a dead Poet to final rest. You seemed to fling your gates ajar, And softly lead me by the hand, Saying, ``Behold! henceforth you are No stranger in the Tuscan land.'' And though no love my love can wean From native crag and cradling sea, Yet Florence from that hour hath been More than a foster-nurse to me. When mount I terraced slopes arrayed In bridal bloom of peach and pear, While under olive's phantom shade Lupine and beanflower scent the air, The wild-bees hum round golden bay, The green frog sings on fig-tree bole, And, see! down daisy-whitened way Come the slow steers and swaying pole. The fresh-pruned vine-stems, curving, bend Over the peaceful wheaten spears, And with the glittering sunshine blend Their transitory April tears. O'er wall and trellis trailed and wound, Hang roses blushing, roses pale; And, hark! what was that silvery sound? The first note of the nightingale. Curtained, I close my lids and dream Of Beauty seen not but surmised, And, lulled by scent and song, I seem Immortally imparadised. 447 When from the deep sweet swoon I wake And gaze past slopes of grape and grain, Where Arno, like some lonely lake, Silvers the far-off seaward plain, I see celestial sunset fires That lift us from this earthly leaven, And darkly silent cypress spires Pointing the way from hill to Heaven. Then something more than mortal steals Over the wavering twilight air, And, messenger of nightfall, peals From each crowned peak a call to prayer. And now the last meek prayer is said, And, in the hallowed hush, there is Only a starry dome o'erhead, Propped by columnar cypresses. XXXIV Re-roaming through this palaced town, I suddenly, 'neath grim-barred pile, Catch sight of Dante's awful frown, Or Leonardo's mystic smile; Then, swayed by memory's fancy, stroll To where from May-day's flaming pyre Savonarola's austere soul Went up to Heaven in tongues of fire; Or Buonarroti's plastic hand Made marble block from Massa's steep Dawn into Day at his command, Then plunged it into Night and Sleep. No later wanderings can dispel The glamour of the bygone years; And, through the streets I know so well, 448 I scarce can see my way for tears. XXXV A sombre shadow seems to fall On comely altar, transept fair; The saints are still on frescoed wall, But who comes thither now for prayer? Men throng from far-off stranger land, To stare, to wonder, not to kneel, With map and guide-book in their hand To tell them what to think and feel. They scan, they prate, they marvel why The figures still expressive glow, Oblivious they were painted by Adoring Frà Angelico. Did Dante from his tomb afar Return, his wrongs redressed at last, And see you, Florence, as you are, Half alien to your gracious Past, Finding no Donatello now, No reverent Giotto 'mong the quick, To glorify ascetic vow Of Francis or of Dominic; Self-exiled by yet sterner fate Than erst, he would from wandering cease, And, ringing at monastic gate, Plead, ``I am one who craves for peace.'' And what he sought but ne'er could find, Shall I, less worthy, hope to gain, The freedom of the tranquil mind, The lordship over loss and pain? More than such peace I found when I Did first, in unbound youth, repair 449 To Tuscan shrine, Ausonian sky. I found it, for I brought it there. XXXVI Yet Art brings peace, itself is Peace, And, as I on these frescoes gaze, I feel all fretful tumults cease And harvest calm of mellower days. For Soul too hath its seasons. Time, That leads Spring, Summer, Autumn, round, Makes our ephemeral passions chime With something permanent and profound. And, as in Nature, April oft Strives to revert to wintry hours, But shortly upon garth and croft Re-sheds warm smiles and moistening showers, Or, for one day, will Autumn wear The gayer garments of the Spring, And then athwart the wheatfields bare Again her graver shadows fling; So, though the Soul hath moods that veer, And seem to hold no Rule in awe, Like the procession of the year, It too obeys the sovran Law. Nor Art itself brings settled peace, Until the mind is schooled to know That gusts subside and tumults cease Only in sunset's afterglow. Life's contradictions vanish then, Husht thought replacing clashing talk Among the windy ways of men. 'Tis in the twilight Angels walk. 450 ROME XXXVII The last warm gleams of sunset fade From cypress spire and stonepine dome, And, in the twilight's deepening shade, Lingering, I scan the wrecks of Rome. Husht the Madonna's Evening Bell; The steers lie loosed from wain and plough; The vagrant monk is in his cell, The meek nun-novice cloistered now. Pedant's presumptuous voice no more Vexes the spot where Caesar trod, And o'er the pavement's soundless floor Come banished priest and exiled God. The lank-ribbed she-wolf, couched among The regal hillside's tangled scrubs, With doting gaze and fondling tongue Suckles the Vestal's twin-born cubs. Yet once again Evander leads Æneas to his wattled home, And, throned on Tiber's fresh-cut reeds, Talks of burnt Troy and rising Rome. From out the tawny dusk one hears The half-feigned scream of Sabine maids, The rush to arms, then swift the tears That separate the clashing blades. The Lictors with their fasces throng To quell the Commons' rising roar, As Tullia's chariot flames along, Splashed with her murdered father's gore. Her tresses free from band or comb, Love-dimpled Venus, lithe and tall, 451 And fresh as Fiumicino's foam, Mounts her pentelic pedestal. With languid lids, and lips apart, And curving limbs like wave half-furled, Unarmed she dominates the heart, And without sceptre sways the world. Nerved by her smile, avenging Mars Stalks through the Forum's fallen fanes, Or, changed of mien and healed of scars, Threads sylvan slopes and vineyard plains. With waves of song from wakening lyre Apollo routs the wavering night, While, parsley-crowned, the white-robed choir Wind chanting up the Sacred Height, Where Jove, with thunder-garlands wreathed, And crisp locks frayed like fretted foam, Sits with his lightnings half unsheathed, And frowns against the foes of Rome. You cannot kill the Gods. They still Reclaim the thrones where once they reigned, Rehaunt the grove, remount the rill, And renovate their rites profaned. Diana's hounds still lead the chase, Still Neptune's Trident crests the sea, And still man's spirit soars through space On feathered heels of Mercury. No flood can quench the Vestals' Fire; The Flamen's robes are still as white As ere the Salii's armoured choir Were drowned by droning anchorite. The saint may seize the siren's seat, The shaveling frown where frisked the Faun; Ne'er will, though all beside should fleet, The Olympian Presence be withdrawn. 452 Here, even in the noontide glare, The Gods, recumbent, take their ease; Go look, and you will find them there, Slumbering behind some fallen frieze. But most, when sunset glow hath paled, And come, as now, the twilight hour, In vesper vagueness dimly veiled I feel their presence and their power. What though their temples strew the ground, And to the ruin owls repair, Their home, their haunt, is all around; They drive the cloud, they ride the air. And, when the planets wend their way Along the never-ageing skies, ``Revere the Gods'' I hear them say; ``The Gods are old, the Gods are wise.'' Build as man may, Time gnaws and peers Through marble fissures, granite rents; Only Imagination rears Imperishable monuments. Let Gaul and Goth pollute the shrine, Level the altar, fire the fane: There is no razing the Divine; The Gods return, the Gods remain. XXXVIII Christ is arisen. The place wherein They laid Him shows but cerements furled, And belfry answers belfry's din To ring the tidings round the world. Grave Hierarchs come, an endless band, In jewelled mitre, cope embossed, Who bear Rome's will to every land 453 In all the tongues of Pentecost. Majestic, along marble floor, Walk Cardinals in blood-red robe, Martyrs for Faith and Christ no more, Who gaze as though they ruled the globe. With halberds bare and doublets slashed, Emblems that war will never cease, Come martial guardians, unabashed, And march afront the Prince of Peace. Then, in his gestatorial Chair See Christ's vicegerent, bland, benign, To crowds all prostrate as in prayer Lean low, and make the Holy Sign. Then trumpets shrill, and organ peals, Throughout the mighty marble pile, Whileas a myriad concourse kneels In dense-packed nave and crowded aisle. Hark to the sudden hush! Aloft From unseen source in empty dome Swells prayerful music silvery-soft, Borne from far-off celestial Home. Then, when the solemn rite is done, The worshippers stream out to where Dance fountains glittering in the sun, While expectation fills the air. Now on high balcony He stands, And-save for the Colonna curse,Blesses with high-uplifted hands The City and the Universe. Christ is arisen! But scarce as when, On the third day of death and gloom, Came ever-loving Magdalen With tears and spices to His tomb. 454 XXXIX The Tiber winds its sluggish way Through niggard tracts whence Rome's command Once cast the shadow of her sway, O'er Asian city, Afric sand. Nor even yet doth She resign Her sceptre. Still the spell is hers, Though she may seem a rifled shrine 'Mid circumjacent sepulchres. One after one, they came, they come, Gaul, Goth, Savoy, to work their will; She answers, when She most seems dumb, ``I wore the Crown, I wear it still. ``From Jove I first received the gift, I from Jehovah wear it now, Nor shall profane invader lift The diadem from off my brow. ``The Past is mine, and on the Past The Future builds; and Time will rear The next strong structure on the last, Where men behold but shattered tier. ``The Teuton hither hies to teach, To prove, disprove, to delve and probe. Fool! Pedant! Does he think to reach The deep foundations of the globe?'' For me, I am content to tread On Sabine dust and Gothic foe. Leave me to deepening silent dread Of vanished Empire's afterglow. In this Imperial wilderness Why rashly babble and explore? O, let me know a little less, So I may feel a little more! 455 XL For upward of one thousand years, Here men and women prayed to Jove, With smiles and incense, gifts and tears, In secret shrine, or civic grove; And, when Jove did not seem to heed, Sought Juno's mediatorial power, Or begged fair Venus intercede And melt him in his amorous hour. Sages invoked Minerva's might; The Poet, ere he struck the lyre, Prayed to the God of Song and Light To touch the strings with hallowed fire. With flaming herbs were altars smoked Sprinkled with blood and perfumed must, And gods and goddesses invoked To second love or sanction lust. And did they hear and heed the prayer, Or, through that long Olympian reign, Were they divinities of air Begot of man's fantastic brain? In Roman halls their statues still Serenely stand, but no one now Ascends the Capitolian Hill, To render thanks, or urge the vow. Through now long centuries hath Rome Throned other God, preached other Creed, That here still have their central home, And feed man's hope, content his need. Against these, too, will Time prevail? No! Let whatever gestates, be, Secure will last the tender tale 456 From Bethlehem to Calvary. Throughout this world of pain and loss, Man ne'er will cease to bend his knee To Crown of Thorns, to Spear, to Cross, And Doorway of Humility. XLI If Reason be the sole safe guide In man implanted from above, Why crave we for one only face, Why consecrate the name of Love? Faces there are no whit less fair, Yet ruddier lip, more radiant eye, Same rippling smile, same auburn hair, But not for us. Say, Reason, why. Why bound our hearts when April pied Comes singing, or when hawthorn blows? Doth logic in the lily hide, And where's the reason in the rose? Why weld our keels and launch our ships, If Reason urge some wiser part, Kiss England's Flag with dying lips And fold its glories to the heart? In this gross world we touch and see, If Reason be no trusty guide, For world unseen why should it be The sole explorer justified? The homing swallow knows its nest, Sure curves the comet to its goal, Instinct leads Autumn to its rest, And why not Faith the homing soul? Is Reason so aloof, aloft, It doth not 'gainst itself rebel, 457 And are not Reason's reasonings oft By Reason proved unreasonable? He is perplexed no more, who prays, ``Hail, Mary Mother, full of grace!'' O drag me from Doubt's endless maze, And let me see my Loved One's face! XLII ``Upon this rock!'' Yet even here Where Christian God ousts Pagan wraith, Rebellious Reason whets its spear, And smites upon the shield of Faith. On sacred mount, down seven-hilled slopes, Fearless it faces foe and friend, Saying to man's immortal hopes, ``Whatso began, perforce must end.'' Not men alone, but gods too, die; Fanes are, like hearths, left bare and lone; This earth will into fragments fly, And Heaven itself be overthrown. Why then should Man immortal be? He is but fleeting form, to fade, Like momentary cloud, or sea Of waves dispersed as soon as made. Yet if 'tis Force, not Form, survives, Meseems therein that one may find Some comfort for distressful lives; For, if Force ends not, why should Mind? Is Doubt more forceful than Belief? The doctor's cap than friar's cowl? O ripeness of the falling leaf! O wisdom of the moping owl! Man's Mind will ever stand apart 458 From Science, save this have for goal The evolution of the heart, And sure survival of the Soul. XLIII The Umbilicum lonely stands Where once rose porch and vanished dome; But he discerns who understands That every road may lead to Rome. Enthroned in Peter's peaceful Chair, The spiritual Caesar sways A wider Realm of earth and air Than trembled at Octavian's gaze. His universal arms embrace The saint, the sinner, and the sage, And proffer refuge, comfort, grace To tribulation's pilgrimage. Here scientific searchers find Precursors for two thousand years, Who in a drouthy world divined Fresh springs for human doubts and fears. Here fair chaste Agnes veils her face From prowlers of the sensual den, And pity, pardon, and embrace Await repentant Magdalen. Princess and peasant-mother wend To self-same altar, self-same shrine, And Cardinal and Patriarch bend Where lepers kneel, and beggars whine. And is there then, in my distress, No road, no gate, no shrine, for me? The answer comes, ``Yes, surely, yes! The Doorway of Humility.'' 459 O rival Faiths! O clamorous Creeds! Would you but hush your strife in prayer, And raise one Temple for our needs, Then, then, we all might worship there. But dogma new with dogma old Clashes to soothe the spirit's grief, And offer to the unconsoled Polyglot Babel of Belief! XLIV The billows roll, and rise, and break, Around me; fixedly shine the stars In clear dome overhead, and take Their course, unheeding earthly jars. Yet if one's upward gaze could be But stationed where the planets are, The star were restless as the sea, The sea be tranquil as the star. Hollowed like cradle, then like grave, Now smoothly curved, now shapeless spray, Withal the undirected wave Forms, and reforms, and knows its way. Then, waters, bear me on where He, Ere death absolved at Christian font, Removed Rome's menaced majesty Eastward beyond the Hellespont. Foreseeing not what Fate concealed, But Time's caprice would there beget, That Cross would unto Crescent yield, Caesar and Christ to Mahomet. Is it then man's predestined state To search for, ne'er to find, the Light? Arise, my Star, illuminate These empty spaces of the Night! 460 XLV Last night I heard the cuckoo call Among the moist green glades of home, And in the Chase around the Hall Saw the May hawthorn flower and foam. Deep in the wood where primrose stars Paled before bluebell's dazzling reign, The nightingale's sad sobbing bars Rebuked the merle's too joyful strain. The kine streamed forth from stall and byre, The foal frisked round its mother staid, The meads, by sunshine warmed, took fire, And lambs in pasture, bleating, played. The uncurbed rivulets raced to where The statelier river curled and wound, And trout, of human step aware, Shot through the wave without a sound. Adown the village street, as clear As in one's wakeful mid-day hours, Beheld I Monica drawing near, Her vestal lap one crib of flowers. Lending no look to me, she passed By the stone path, as oft before, Between old mounds Spring newly grassed, And entered through the Little Door. Led by her feet, I hastened on, But, ere my feverish steps could get To the low porch, lo! Morning shone On Moslem dome and minaret! CONSTANTINOPLE 461 XLVI Now Vesper brings the sunset hour, And, where crusading Knighthood trod, Muezzin from his minaret tower Proclaims, ``There is no God but God!'' Male God who shares his godhead with No Virgin Mother's sacred tear, But finds on earth congenial kith In wielders of the sword and spear: Male God who on male lust bestows The ruddy lip, the rounded limb, And promises, at battle's close, Houri, not saint nor seraphim. Swift through the doubly-guarded stream, Shoots the caïque 'neath oarsmen brisk, While from its cushioned cradle gleam The eyes of yashmaked odalisque. Unchanged adown the changing years, Here where the Judas blossoms blaze, Against Sophia's marble piers The scowling Muslim lean and gaze; And still at sunset's solemn hour, Where Christ's devout Crusader trod, Defiant from the minaret's tower Proclaim, ``There is no God but God!'' XLVII Three rival Rituals. One revered In that loved English hamlet where, With flowers in Vicarage garden reared, She decks the altar set for prayer: Another, where majestic Rome, With fearless Faith and flag unfurled 462 'Gainst Doubt's ephemeral wave and foam, Demands obedience from the world. The third, where now I stand, and where Two hoary Continents have met, And Islam guards from taint and tare Monistic Creed of Mahomet. Yet older than all three, but banned To suffer still the exile's doom From shrine where Turkish sentries stand, And Christians wrangle round Christ's tomb. Where then find Creed, divine or dead, All may embrace, and none contemn?Remember Who it was that said, ``Not here, nor at Jerusalem!'' ATHENS XLVIII To Acrocorinth's brow I climb, And, lulled in retrospective bliss, Descry, as through the mists of time, Faintly the far Acropolis. Below me, rivers, mountains, vales, Wide stretch of ancient Hellas lies: Symbol of Song that never fails, Parnassus communes with the skies. I linger, dream-bound by the Past, Till sundown joins time's deep abyss, Then skirt, through shadows moonlight-cast, Lone strand of sailless Salamis, Until Eleusis gleams through dawn, Where, though a suppliant soul I come, The veil remains still unwithdrawn, 463 And all the Oracles are dumb. So onward to the clear white Light, Where, though the worshippers be gone, Abides on unmysterious height The calm unquestioning Parthenon. Find I, now there I stand at last, That naked Beauty, undraped Truth, Can satisfy our yearnings vast, The doubts of age, the dreams of youth; That, while we ask, in futile strife, From altar, tripod, fount, or well, Form is the secret soul of life, And Art the only Oracle; That Hera and Athena, linked With Aphrodite, hush distress, And, in their several gifts distinct, Withal are Triune Goddesses? That mortal wiser then was He Who gave the prize to Beauty's smile, Divides his gifts among the Three, And thuswise baffles Discord's guile? But who is wise? The nobler twain, Who the restraining girdle wear, Contend too often all in vain With sinuous curve and frolic hair. Just as one sees in marble, still, Pan o'er Apollo's shoulder lean, Suggesting to the poet's quill The sensual note, the hint obscene. Doth then the pure white Light grow dim, And must it be for ever thus? Listen! I hear a far-off Hymn, Veni, Creator, Spiritus! 464 XLIX The harvest of Hymettus drips As sweet as when the Attic bees Swarmed round the honey-laden lips Of heavenly-human Sophocles. The olives are as green in grove As in the days the poets bless, When Pallas with Poseidon strove To be the City's Patroness. The wine-hued main, white marble frieze, Dome of blue ether over all, One still beholds, but nowhere sees Panathenaic Festival. O'erhead, no Zeus or frowns or nods, Olympus none in air or skies; Below, a sepulchre of Gods, And tombs of dead Divinities. Yet, are they dead? Still stricken blind, Tiresiaslike, are they that see, With bold uncompromising mind, Wisdom in utter nudity; Experiencing a kindred fate With the First Parents of us all, Jehovah thrust through Eden's Gate, When Knowledge brought about their Fall. Hath Aphrodite into foam, Whence She first flowered, sunk back once more, And doth She nowhere find a home, Or worship, upon Christian shore? Her shrine is in the human breast, To find her none need soar or dive. Goodness or Loveliness our quest, The ever-helpful Gods survive. 465 Hellas retorts, when Hebrew gibes At Gods of levity and lust, ``God of Judaea's wandering tribes Was jealous, cruel, and unjust.'' Godhead, withal, remains the same, And Art embalms its symbols still; As Poets, when athirst for Fame, Still dream of Aganippe's rill. Why still pursue a bootless quest, And wander heartsore farther East, Because unanswered, south or west, By Pagan seer or Christian priest? Brahma and Buddha, what have they To offer to my shoreless search? ``Let Contemplation be,'' they say, ``Your ritual, Nothingness your Church. ``Passion and purpose both forsake, Echoes from non-existent wall; We do but dream we are awake, Ourselves the deepest dream of all. ``We dream we think, feel, touch, and see, And what these are, still dreaming, guess, Though there is no Reality Behind their fleeting semblances.'' Thus the East answers my appeal, Denies, and so illudes, my want. Alas! Could I but cease to feel, Brahma should be my Hierophant. But, hampered by my Western mind, I cannot set the Spirit free From Matter, but Illusion find, 466 Of all, the most illusory. DELPHI LI The morning mists that hid the bay And curtained mountains fast asleep, Begin to feel the touch of day, And roll from off both wave and steep. In floating folds they curve and rise, Then slowly melt and merge in air, Till high above me glow the skies, And cloudless sunshine everywhere. Parnassus wears nor veil nor frown, Windless the eagle wings his way, As I from Delphi gaze adown On Salona and Amphissa. It was the sovran Sun that drew Aloft and scattered morning haze, And now fills all the spacious blue With its own glorifying rays. And, no less sovran than the sun, Imagination brings relief Of morning light to shadows dun, To heart's distress, and spirit's grief. Parnassus boasts no loftier peak Than Poet's heavenward song; which, though Harbouring among the sad and weak, Lifteth aloft man's griefs below. Though sun-bronzed Phocian maidens lave Their kerchiefs in Castalia's spring, The Muses linger round its wave, And aid the pilgrim sent to sing. 467 And, listening there, I seem to hear The unseen Oracle say, ``Be strong: Subdue the sigh, repress the tear, And let not sorrow silence Song. ``You now have learnt enough from pain; And, if worse anguish lurk behind, Breathe in it some unselfish strain, And with grief's wisdom aid your kind. ``Who but of his own suffering sings, Is like an eagle, robbed, distressed, That vainly shrieks and beats its wings, Because it cannot find its nest. ``Let male Imagination wed The orphan, Sorrow, to console Its virgin loneness, whence are bred Serenity and self-control. ``Hence let the classic breezes blow You to your Land beyond the sea, That you may make, for others' woe, Your own a healing melody; ``To wintry woe no more a slave, But, having dried your April tears, Behold a helpful harvest wave From ridges of the fallow years.'' LII Rebuked thus by the stately Past, Whose solemn choruses endure Through voices new and visions vast, And centuries of sepulture, Because, serene, it never blinked At sheen or shadow of the sun, But Hades and Olympus linked 468 With Salamis and Marathon; Which held despondency at bay And, while revering Fate's decree, Reconciled with majestic lay Man to the Human Tragedy; To Gods of every land I vowed, Judaea, Hellas, Mecca, Rome, No more to live by sorrow bowed, But, wending backward to my home, Thenceforth to muse on woe more wide Than individual distress, The loftier Muses for my guide, Minerva for my monitress; Nor yet to scorn the tender aid Of Christian martyr, virgin, sage, And, meekly pondering in the shade, Proffer ripe counsel to my Age. And, haply, since 'tis Song alone Can baffle death, and conquer time, Maiden unborn in days unknown, Under the leaves of fragrant lime, Scanning the verse that here is writ, While cherishing some secret smart Of love or loss, may glean from it Some comfort for her weary heart; And, gently warned, grave minds may own The world hath more to bear than they, And, while I dream 'neath mossy stone, Repeat my name, and love my lay. LIII Scarce to the all-indwelling Power That vow was uttered, ere there came 469 A messenger in boyhood's flower, Winged with his search, his face aflame. From Amphissa he straight had clomb, Thridding that devious mountain land, With letter from my far-off home, And written by my Loved One's hand. ``Come to me where I drooping lie. None yet have died of Love, they say: Withal, I sometimes think that I Have prayed and sighed my life away. ``I want your absolution, dear, For whatso wrong I may have done; My conscience waneth less severe, In softness of the setting sun. ``'Twas I, 'twas I, far more than you, That stood in need, as now I see, Stooping, to enter meekly through The Doorway of Humility. ``In vain I turn to Throne of Grace, Where sorrows cease, and tears are dry; I fain once more would see your face, And hear your voice, before I die.'' ENGLAND LIV The oak logs smoulder on my hearth, Though round them hums no household talk; The roses in the garden-garth Hang mournfully on curving stalk. My wolf-hound round me leaps and bays, That wailed lost footsteps when I went: He little knows the grief that weighs 470 On my return from banishment. Half Autumn now, half Summer yet, For Nature hath a human heart, It seems as though they, having met, To take farewell, are loth to part. The splendour of the Year's decline Hath not yet come. One still can see Late honeysuckle intertwine With Maiden's-Bower and briony. The bracken-fronds, fast yellowing, tower From out sere needles of the pine; Now hawkweed blooms where foxgloves flower, And bramble where once eglantine. And, as I wend with hurrying feet Across the park, along the lane That leads unto the hamlet street, And cradle of my bliss and bane, In cottage plots on either side, O'er mignonette and fragrant stock Soar tiger-lilies lithe and tall, And homely-sheltered hollyhock. And when I reach the low grey wall That skirts God's-acre on the hill, I see, awaiting my recall, The Little Door stand open still. A dip, a slight descent, and then Into the Vicarage Walk I passed; It seemed as though the tongues of men Had left it since I saw it last. Round garden-plot, in westering sun, Her agëd parents slowly stepped: Her Mother had the face of one Who oft hath prayed, and oft hath wept. 471 She wore the silent plaintive grace Of Autumn just before its close, And on her slowly fading face The pathos of November rose. With pitying gaze and accents kind, ``Go in,'' she said, ``and mount the stair; And you through open door will find That Monica awaits you there.'' LV I mounted. At half-open door Pausing, I softly called her name, As one would pause and halt before Heaven's Gateway. But no answer came. She lies, methought, in Sleep's caress, So, passing in, I seemed to see, So saintly white the vision, less A chamber than a Sanctuary. Vestured in white, on snow-white bed, She lay, as dreaming something sweet, Madonna lilies at her head, Madonna lilies at her feet. A thought, I did not dare to speak,``Is this the sleep of life or death?'' And, with my cheek against her cheek, Listening, I seemed to hear her breath. 'Twas Love's last blindness not to see Her sinless soul had taken wing Unto the Land, if such there be, Where saints adore, and Seraphs sing. And yet I felt within my heart, Though lids were closed and lips were dumb, That, for Love's sake, her soul in part Had lingered here, till I should come. 472 I kissed her irresponsive hand, I laid my lips on her cold brow, That She, like me, should understand 'Twas thus I sealed our nuptial vow. And then I saw upon her breast A something writ, she fain had said Had I been near, to me addressed, Which, kneeling down, I took and read. LVI ``I prayed I might prolong my years Till you could come and hush my sighs, And dry my penitential tears; But Heaven hath willed it otherwise: ``That I may expiate the wrong By me inflicted on us both, When, yet Love's novice, feebly strong, I sinned against Love's sovran troth. ``Now Death, the mirror unto Life, Shows me that nought should keep apart Those who, though sore perplexed by strife 'Twixt Faith and Doubt, are one in heart. ``For Doubt is one with Faith when they, Who doubt, for Truth's sake suffering live; And Faith meanwhile should hope and pray, Withholding not what Love can give. ``We lead the blind by voice and hand, And not by light they cannot see; We are not framed to understand The How and Why of such as He, ``But natured only to rejoice At every sound or sign of hope, And, guided by the still small voice, 473 In patience through the darkness grope; ``Until our finer sense expands, And we exchange for holier sight The earthly help of voice and hands, And in His light behold the Light. ``Had my poor Love but been more wise, I should have ta'en you to my breast, Striving to hush your plaintive cries, And rock your Reason back to rest. ``But, though alone you now must tread Where we together should have trod, In loneliness you may be led, Through faith in me, to Faith in God. ``With tranquil purpose, fervent mind, Foster, while you abide on earth, And humbly proffer to your kind, The gift assigned to you at birth. ``As in the far-off boyish year When did your singing voice awake, Disinterestedly revere And love it for its own great sake. ``And when life takes autumnal hues, With fervent reminiscence woo All the affections of the Muse, And write the poem lived by you. ``And should, until your days shall end, You still the lyric voice retain, With its seductive music blend A graver note, a loftier strain. ``While buoyant youth and manhood strong Follow where Siren sounds entice, The Deities of Love and Song, Rapture and loveliness, suffice. 474 ``But when decay, and pain, and loss, Remind one of the Goal forgot, And we in turn must bear the Cross, The Pagan Gods can help us not. ``Nor need you then seek, far and near, More sumptuous shrines on alien strand, But with domestic mind revere The Ritual of your native Land. ``The Little Door stands open wide, And, if you meekly pass therethrough, Though I no longer kneel inside, I shall be hovering near to you. ``Farewell! till you shall learn the whole Of what we here but see in part. Now I to God commend my soul, And unto you I leave my heart.'' LVII I wended up the slope once more To where the Church stands lone and still, And passed beneath the Little Door, My will the subject of Her will. The sunset rays through pictured pane Fell, fretted into weft and woof, On transept, nave, and aisle, to wane On column cold and vaulted roof. Within the carven altar screen Were lilies tall, and white, and fair, So like to those I late had seen, It seemed She must be sleeping there. Mutely I knelt, with bended brow And shaded eyes, but heart intent, To learn, should any teach me now, What Life, and Love, and Sorrow meant. 475 And there remained until the shroud Of dusk foretold the coming night; And then I rose, and prayed aloud, ``Let there be Light! Let there be Light!'' ~ Alfred Austin,

887: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,

888:Obiit Mdcccxxxiii (Entire) Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove; Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou madest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him: thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith: we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 414 Forgive what seem’d my sin in me; What seem’d my worth since I began; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. I. I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things. But who shall so forecast the years And find in loss a gain to match? Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch The far-off interest of tears? Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d, Let darkness keep her raven gloss: Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, To dance with death, to beat the ground, Than that the victor Hours should scorn The long result of love, and boast, ‘Behold the man that loved and lost, But all he was is overworn.’ II. 415 Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men. O not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom: And gazing on thee, sullen tree, Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee. III. O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip? ‘The stars,’ she whispers, ‘blindly run; A web is wov’n across the sky; From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun: ‘And all the phantom, Nature, stands– With all the music in her tone, A hollow echo of my own,– A hollow form with empty hands.’ And shall I take a thing so blind, Embrace her as my natural good; Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind? 416 IV. To Sleep I give my powers away; My will is bondsman to the dark; I sit within a helmless bark, And with my heart I muse and say: O heart, how fares it with thee now, That thou should’st fail from thy desire, Who scarcely darest to inquire, ‘What is it makes me beat so low?’ Something it is which thou hast lost, Some pleasure from thine early years. Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost! Such clouds of nameless trouble cross All night below the darken’d eyes; With morning wakes the will, and cries, ‘Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.’ V. I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold: But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. 417 VI. One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,’ That ‘Loss is common to the race’– And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. O father, wheresoe’er thou be, Who pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still’d the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor,–while thy head is bow’d, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well; Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something thought; Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, ‘here to-day,’ Or ‘here to-morrow will he come.’ O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, That sittest ranging golden hair; And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father’s chimney glows In expectation of a guest; And thinking ‘this will please him best,’ She takes a riband or a rose; 418 For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her colour burns; And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right; And, even when she turn’d, the curse Had fallen, and her future Lord Was drown’d in passing thro’ the ford, Or kill’d in falling from his horse. O what to her shall be the end? And what to me remains of good? To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend. VII. Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp’d no more– Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day. VIII. A happy lover who has come To look on her that loves him well, Who ’lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home; 419 He saddens, all the magic light Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight: So find I every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber and the street, For all is dark where thou art not. Yet as that other, wandering there In those deserted walks, may find A flower beat with rain and wind, Which once she foster'd up with care; So seems it in my deep regret, O my forsaken heart, with thee And this poor flower of poesy Which little cared for fades not yet. But since it pleased a vanish’d eye, I go to plant it on his tomb, That if it can it there may bloom, Or dying, there at least may die. IX. Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur’s loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er. So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror’d mast, and lead Thro’ prosperous floods his holy urn. All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro’ early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 420 Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love; My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me. X. I hear the noise about thy keel; I hear the bell struck in the night: I see the cabin-window bright; I see the sailor at the wheel. Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife, And travell’d men from foreign lands; And letters unto trembling hands; And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life. So bring him: we have idle dreams: This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies: O to us, The fools of habit, sweeter seems To rest beneath the clover sod, That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God; Than if with thee the roaring wells Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; And hands so often clasp’d in mine, Should toss with tangle and with shells. XI. 421 Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro’ the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground: Calm and deep peace on this high wold, And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold: Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main: Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair: Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep. XII. Lo, as a dove when up she springs To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe, Some dolorous message knit below The wild pulsation of her wings; Like her I go; I cannot stay; I leave this mortal ark behind, A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large, And reach the glow of southern skies, And see the sails at distance rise, And linger weeping on the marge, 422 And saying; ‘Comes he thus, my friend? Is this the end of all my care?’ And circle moaning in the air: ‘Is this the end? Is this the end?’ And forward dart again, and play About the prow, and back return To where the body sits, and learn That I have been an hour away. XIII. Tears of the widower, when he sees A late-lost form that sleep reveals, And moves his doubtful arms, and feels Her place is empty, fall like these; Which weep a loss for ever new, A void where heart on heart reposed; And, where warm hands have prest and closed, Silence, till I be silent too. Which weeps the comrade of my choice, An awful thought, a life removed, The human-hearted man I loved, A Spirit, not a breathing voice. Come Time, and teach me, many years, I do not suffer in a dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears; My fancies time to rise on wing, And glance about the approaching sails, As tho’ they brought but merchants’ bales, And not the burthen that they bring. XIV. 423 If one should bring me this report, That thou hadst touch’d the land to-day, And I went down unto the quay, And found thee lying in the port; And standing, muffled round with woe, Should see thy passengers in rank Come stepping lightly down the plank, And beckoning unto those they know; And if along with these should come The man I held as half-divine; Should strike a sudden hand in mine, And ask a thousand things of home; And And And And I should tell him all my pain, how my life had droop’d of late, he should sorrow o’er my state marvel what possess’d my brain; And I perceived no touch of change, No hint of death in all his frame, But found him all in all the same, I should not feel it to be strange. XV. To-night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl’d away, The rooks are blown about the skies; The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d, The cattle huddled on the lea; And wildly dash’d on tower and tree The sunbeam strikes along the world: And but for fancies, which aver That all thy motions gently pass Athwart a plane of molten glass, I scarce could brook the strain and stir 424 That makes the barren branches loud; And but for fear it is not so, The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a labouring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire. XVI. What words are these have fall’n from me? Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be? Or doth she only seem to take The touch of change in calm or storm; But knows no more of transient form In her deep self, than some dead lake That holds the shadow of a lark Hung in the shadow of a heaven? Or has the shock, so harshly given, Confused me like the unhappy bark That strikes by night a craggy shelf, And staggers blindly ere she sink? And stunn’d me from my power to think And all my knowledge of myself; And made me that delirious man Whose fancy fuses old and new, And flashes into false and true, And mingles all without a plan? XVII. 425 Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze Compell’d thy canvas, and my prayer Was as the whisper of an air To breathe thee over lonely seas. For I in spirit saw thee move Thro’ circles of the bounding sky, Week after week: the days go by: Come quick, thou bringest all I love. Henceforth, wherever thou may’st roam, My blessing, like a line of light, Is on the waters day and night, And like a beacon guards thee home. So may whatever tempest mars Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; And balmy drops in summer dark Slide from the bosom of the stars. So kind an office hath been done, Such precious relics brought by thee; The dust of him I shall not see Till all my widow’d race be run. XVIII. ’Tis well; ’tis something; we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. ’Tis little; but it looks in truth As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, And come, whatever loves to weep, And hear the ritual of the dead. 426 Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be, I, falling on his faithful heart, Would breathing thro’ his lips impart The life that almost dies in me; That dies not, but endures with pain, And slowly forms the the firmer mind, Treasuring the look it cannot find, The words that are not heard again. XIX. The Danube to the Severn gave The darken’d heart that beat no more; They laid him by the pleasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave. There twice a day the Severn fills; That salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills. The Wye is hush’d nor moved along, And hush’d my deepest grief of all, When fill’d with tears that cannot fall, I brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide flows down, the wave again Is vocal in its wooded walls; My deeper anguish also falls, And I can speak a little then. XX. The lesser griefs that may be said, That breathe a thousand tender vows, Are but as servants in a house Where lies the master newly dead; 427 Who speak their feeling as it is, And weep the fulness from the mind: ‘It will be hard,’ they say, ‘to find Another service such as this.’ My lighter moods are like to these, That out of words a comfort win; But there are other griefs within, And tears that at their fountain freeze; For by the hearth the children sit Cold in that atmosphere of Death, And scarce endure to draw the breath, Or like to noiseless phantoms flit: But open converse is there none, So much the vital spirits sink To see the vacant chair, and think, ‘How good! how kind! and he is gone.’ XXI. I sing to him that rests below, And, since the grasses round me wave, I take the grasses of the grave, And make them pipes whereon to blow. The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will he speak: ‘This fellow would make weakness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men.’ Another answers, ‘Let him be, He loves to make parade of pain, That with his piping he may gain The praise that comes to constancy.’ A third is wroth: ‘Is this an hour For private sorrow’s barren song, When more and more the people throng The chairs and thrones of civil power? 428 ‘A time to sicken and to swoon, When Science reaches forth her arms To feel from world to world, and charms Her secret from the latest moon?’ Behold, ye speak an idle thing: Ye never knew the sacred dust: I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing: And one is glad; her note is gay, For now her little ones have ranged; And one is sad; her note is changed, Because her brood is stol’n away. XXII. The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Thro’ four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow: And we with singing cheer’d the way, And, crown’d with all the season lent, From April on to April went, And glad at heart from May to May: But where the path we walk’d began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow fear’d of man; Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold, And dull’d the murmur on thy lip, And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho’ I walk in haste, And think, that somewhere in the waste 429 The Shadow sits and waits for me. XXIII. Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Or breaking into song by fits, Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came, Or on to where the pathway leads; And crying, How changed from where it ran Thro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan: When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood; And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. XXIV. And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say? The very source and fount of Day 430 Is dash’d with wandering isles of night. If all was good and fair we met, This earth had been the Paradise It never look’d to human eyes Since our first Sun arose and set. And is it that the haze of grief Makes former gladness loom so great? The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief? Or that the past will always win A glory from its being far; And orb into the perfect star We saw not, when we moved therein? XXV. I know that this was Life,–the track Whereon with equal feet we fared; And then, as now, the day prepared The daily burden for the back. But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air; I loved the weight I had to bear, Because it needed help of Love: Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty Love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him. XXVI. Still onward winds the dreary way; I with it; for I long to prove No lapse of moons can canker Love, Whatever fickle tongues may say. 431 And if that eye which watches guilt And goodness, and hath power to see Within the green the moulder’d tree, And towers fall’n as soon as built– Oh, if indeed that eye foresee Or see (in Him is no before) In more of life true life no more And Love the indifference to be, Then might I find, ere yet the morn Breaks hither over Indian seas, That Shadow waiting with the keys, To shroud me from my proper scorn. XXVII. I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. XXVIII. 432 The time draws near the birth of Christ: The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist. Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound: Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish’d no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break Before I heard those bells again: But they my troubled spirit rule, For they controll’d me when a boy; They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule. XXIX. With such compelling cause to grieve As daily vexes household peace, And chains regret to his decease, How dare we keep our Christmas-eve; Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of the night With shower’d largess of delight In dance and song and game and jest? Yet go, and while the holly boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font, Make one wreath more for Use and Wont, That guard the portals of the house; 433 Old sisters of a day gone by, Gray nurses, loving nothing new; Why should they miss their yearly due Before their time? They too will die. XXX. With trembling fingers did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; A rainy cloud possess’d the earth, And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol’d, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all. We paused: the winds were in the beech: We heard them sweep the winter land; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each. Then echo-like our voices rang; We sung, tho’ every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year: impetuously we sang: We ceased: a gentler feeling crept Upon us: surely rest is meet: ‘They rest,’ we said, ‘their sleep is sweet,’ And silence follow’d, and we wept. Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: ‘They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change; ‘Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather’d power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil.’ 434 Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night: O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born. XXXI. When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And home to Mary’s house return’d, Was this demanded–if he yearn’d To hear her weeping by his grave? ‘Where wert thou, brother, those four days?’ There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill’d with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown’d The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ! The rest remaineth unreveal’d; He told it not; or something seal’d The lips of that Evangelist. XXXII. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother’s face, And rests upon the Life indeed. 435 All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour’s feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? XXXIII. O thou that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reach’d a purer air, Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form, Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views; Nor thou with shadow’d hint confuse A life that leads melodious days. Her faith thro’ form is pure as thine, Her hands are quicker unto good: Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine! See thou, that countest reason ripe In holding by the law within, Thou fail not in a world of sin, And ev’n for want of such a type. XXXIV. My own dim life should teach me this, That life shall live for evermore, Else earth is darkness at the core, And dust and ashes all that is; This round of green, this orb of flame, 436 Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild Poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim. What then were God to such as I? ’Twere hardly worth my while to choose Of things all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die; ’Twere best at once to sink to peace, Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws Of vacant darkness and to cease. XXXV. Yet if some voice that man could trust Should murmur from the narrow house, ‘The cheeks drop in; the body bows; Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:’ Might I not say? ‘Yet even here, But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive:’ But I should turn mine ears and hear The moanings of the homeless sea, The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Æonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be; And Love would answer with a sigh, ‘The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more, Half-dead to know that I shall die.’ O me, what profits it to put And idle case? If Death were seen At first as Death, Love had not been, Or been in narrowest working shut, 437 Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape Had bruised the herb and crush’d the grape, And bask’d and batten’d in the woods. XXXVI. Tho’ truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, We yield all blessing to the name Of Him that made them current coin; For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, Where truth in closest words shall fail, When truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors. And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef. XXXVII. Urania speaks with darken’d brow: ‘Thou pratest here where thou art least; This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou. ‘Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel whisper sweet About the ledges of the hill.’ And my Melpomene replies, 438 A touch of shame upon her cheek: ‘I am not worthy ev’n to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries; ‘For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull with song an aching heart, And render human love his dues; ‘But brooding on the dear one dead, And all he said of things divine, (And dear to me as sacred wine To dying lips is all he said), ‘I murmur’d, as I came along, Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d; And loiter’d in the master’s field, And darken’d sanctities with song.’ XXXVIII. With weary steps I loiter on, Tho’ always under alter’d skies The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives. If any care for what is here Survive in spirits render’d free, Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear. XXXIX. Old warder of these buried bones, 439 And answering now my random stroke With fruitful cloud and living smoke, Dark yew, that graspest at the stones And dippest toward the dreamless head, To thee too comes the golden hour When flower is feeling after flower; But Sorrow–fixt upon the dead, And darkening the dark graves of men,– What whisper’d from her lying lips? Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, And passes into gloom again. XL. Could we forget the widow’d hour And look on Spirits breathed away, As on a maiden in the day When first she wears her orange-flower! When crown’d with blessing she doth rise To take her latest leave of home, And hopes and light regrets that come Make April of her tender eyes; And doubtful joys the father move, And tears are on the mother’s face, As parting with a long embrace She enters other realms of love; Her office there to rear, to teach, Becoming as is meet and fit A link among the days, to knit The generations each with each; And, doubtless, unto thee is given A life that bears immortal fruit In those great offices that suit The full-grown energies of heaven. Ay me, the difference I discern! 440 How often shall her old fireside Be cheer’d with tidings of the bride, How often she herself return, And tell them all they would have told, And bring her babe, and make her boast, Till even those that miss’d her most Shall count new things as dear as old: But thou and I have shaken hands, Till growing winters lay me low; My paths are in the fields I know, And thine in undiscover’d lands. XLI. The spirit ere our fatal loss Did ever rise from high to higher; As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, As flies the lighter thro’ the gross. But thou art turn’d to something strange, And I have lost the links that bound Thy changes; here upon the ground, No more partaker of thy change. Deep folly! yet that this could be– That I could wing my will with might To leap the grades of life and light, And flash at once, my friend, to thee. For tho’ my nature rarely yields To that vague fear implied in death; Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, The howlings from forgotten fields; Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor An inner trouble I behold, A spectral doubt which makes me cold, That I shall be thy mate no more, 441 Tho’ following with an upward mind The wonders that have come to thee, Thro’ all the secular to-be, But evermore a life behind. XLII. I vex my heart with fancies dim: He still outstript me in the race; It was but unity of place That made me dream I rank’d with him. And so may Place retain us still, And he the much-beloved again, A lord of large experience, train To riper growth the mind and will: And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit’s inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows? XLIII. If Sleep and Death be truly one, And every spirit’s folded bloom Thro’ all its intervital gloom In some long trance should slumber on; Unconscious of the sliding hour, Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past Be all the colour of the flower: So then were nothing lost to man; So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began; And love will last as pure and whole 442 As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Rewaken with the dawning soul. XLIV. How fares it with the happy dead? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish’d, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint; And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs), May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. If such a dreamy touch should fall, O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all. XLV. The baby new to earth and sky, What time his tender palm is prest Against the circle of the breast, Has never thought that ‘this is I:’ But as he grows he gathers much, And learns the use of ‘I,’ and ‘me,’ And finds ‘I am not what I see, And other than the things I touch.’ So rounds he to a separate mind From whence clear memory may begin, 443 As thro’ the frame that binds him in His isolation grows defined. This use may lie in blood and breath, Which else were fruitless of their due, Had man to learn himself anew Beyond the second birth of Death. XLVI. We ranging down this lower track, The path we came by, thorn and flower, Is shadow’d by the growing hour, Lest life should fail in looking back. So be it: there no shade can last In that deep dawn behind the tomb, But clear from marge to marge shall bloom The eternal landscape of the past; A lifelong tract of time reveal’d; The fruitful hours of still increase; Days order’d in a wealthy peace, And those five years its richest field. O Love, thy province were not large, A bounded field, nor stretching far; Look also, Love, a brooding star, A rosy warmth from marge to marge. XLVII. That each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul, Is faith as vague as all unsweet: Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside; 444 And I shall know him when we meet: And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other’s good: What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth? He seeks at least Upon the last and sharpest height, Before the spirits fade away, Some landing-place, to clasp and say, ‘Farewell! We lose ourselves in light.’ XLVIII. If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, Were taken to be such as closed Grave doubts and answers here proposed, Then these were such as men might scorn: Her care is not to part and prove; She takes, when harsher moods remit, What slender shade of doubt may flit, And makes it vassal unto love: And hence, indeed, she sports with words, But better serves a wholesome law, And holds it sin and shame to draw The deepest measure from the chords: Nor dare she trust a larger lay, But rather loosens from the lip Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away. XLIX. From art, from nature, from the schools, Let random influences glance, Like light in many a shiver’d lance 445 That breaks about the dappled pools: The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, The fancy’s tenderest eddy wreathe, The slightest air of song shall breathe To make the sullen surface crisp. And look thy look, and go thy way, But blame not thou the winds that make The seeming-wanton ripple break, The tender-pencil’d shadow play. Beneath all fancied hopes and fears Ay me, the sorrow deepens down, Whose muffled motions blindly drown The bases of my life in tears. L. Be near me when my light is low, When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick And tingle; and the heart is sick, And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust; And Time, a maniac scattering dust, And Life, a Fury slinging flame. Be near me when my faith is dry, And men the flies of latter spring, That lay their eggs, and sting and sing And weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away, To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life The twilight of eternal day. LI. 446 Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side? Is there no baseness we would hide? No inner vileness that we dread? Shall he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame And I be lessen’d in his love? I wrong the grave with fears untrue: Shall love be blamed for want of faith? There must be wisdom with great Death: The dead shall look me thro’ and thro’. Be near us when we climb or fall: Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all. LII. I cannot love thee as I ought, For love reflects the thing beloved; My words are only words, and moved Upon the topmost froth of thought. ‘Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,’ The Spirit of true love replied; ‘Thou canst not move me from thy side, Nor human frailty do me wrong. ‘What keeps a spirit wholly true To that ideal which he bears? What record? not the sinless years That breathed beneath the Syrian blue: ‘So fret not, like an idle girl, That life is dash’d with flecks of sin. Abide: thy wealth is gather’d in, When Time hath sunder’d shell from pearl.’ 447 LIII. How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise, Who wears his manhood hale and green: And dare we to this fancy give, That had the wild oat not been sown, The soil, left barren, scarce had grown The grain by which a man may live? Or, if we held the doctrine sound For life outliving heats of youth, Yet who would preach it as a truth To those that eddy round and round? Hold thou the good: define it well: For fear divine Philosophy Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell. LIV. Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy’d, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete; That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another’s gain. 448 Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last–far off–at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream: but what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry. LV. The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul? Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life; That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world’s altar-stairs That slope thro’ darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. LVI. 449 ‘So careful of the type?’ but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go. ‘Thou makest thine appeal to me: I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean the breath: I know no more.’ And he, shall he, Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation’s final law– Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek’d against his creed– Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust, Or seal’d within the iron hills? No more? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music match’d with him. O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil. LVII. Peace; come away: the song of woe Is after all an earthly song: Peace; come away: we do him wrong To sing so wildly: let us go. 450 Come; let us go: your cheeks are pale; But half my life I leave behind: Methinks my friend is richly shrined; But I shall pass; my work will fail. Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever look’d with human eyes. I hear it now, and o’er and o’er, Eternal greetings to the dead; And ‘Ave, Ave, Ave,’ said, ‘Adieu, adieu’ for evermore. LVIII. In those sad words I took farewell: Like echoes in sepulchral halls, As drop by drop the water falls In vaults and catacombs, they fell; And, falling, idly broke the peace Of hearts that beat from day to day, Half-conscious of their dying clay, And those cold crypts where they shall cease. The high Muse answer’d: ‘Wherefore grieve Thy brethren with a fruitless tear? Abide a little longer here, And thou shalt take a nobler leave.’ LIX. O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me No casual mistress, but a wife, My bosom-friend and half of life; As I confess it needs must be; O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, 451 Be sometimes lovely like a bride, And put thy harsher moods aside, If thou wilt have me wise and good. My centred passion cannot move, Nor will it lessen from to-day; But I’ll have leave at times to play As with the creature of my love; And set thee forth, for thou art mine, With so much hope for years to come, That, howsoe’er I know thee, some Could hardly tell what name were thine. LX. He past; a soul of nobler tone: My spirit loved and loves him yet, Like some poor girl whose heart is set On one whose rank exceeds her own. He mixing with his proper sphere, She finds the baseness of her lot, Half jealous of she knows not what, And envying all that meet him there. The little village looks forlorn; She sighs amid her narrow days, Moving about the household ways, In that dark house where she was born. The foolish neighbours come and go, And tease her till the day draws by: At night she weeps, ‘How vain am I! How should he love a thing so low?’ LXI. If, in thy second state sublime, 452 Thy ransom’d reason change replies With all the circle of the wise, The perfect flower of human time; And if thou cast thine eyes below, How dimly character’d and slight, How dwarf’d a growth of cold and night, How blanch'd with darkness must I grow! Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore, Where thy first form was made a man: I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can The soul of Shakespeare love thee more. LXII. Tho’ if an eye that’s downward cast Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, Then be my love an idle tale, And fading legend of the past; And thou, as one that once declined, When he was little more than boy, On some unworthy heart with joy, But lives to wed an equal mind; And breathes a novel world, the while His other passion wholly dies, Or in the light of deeper eyes Is matter for a flying smile. LXIII. Yet pity for a horse o’er-driven, And love in which my hound has part, Can hang no weight upon my heart In its assumptions up to heaven; And I am so much more than these, As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I spare them sympathy, 453 And I would set their pains at ease. So mayst thou watch me where I weep, As, unto vaster motions bound, The circuits of thine orbit round A higher height, a deeper deep. LXIV. Dost thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green; Who breaks his birth’s invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance, And grapples with his evil star; Who makes by force his merit known And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state’s decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne; And moving up from high to higher, Becomes on Fortune’s crowning slope The pillar of a people’s hope, The centre of a world’s desire; Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hill, A secret sweetness in the stream, The limit of his narrower fate, While yet beside its vocal springs He play’d at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate; Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labour of his hands, 454 Or in the furrow musing stands; ‘Does my old friend remember me?’ LXV. Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; I lull a fancy trouble-tost With ‘Love’s too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt.’ And in that solace can I sing, Till out of painful phases wrought There flutters up a happy thought, Self-balanced on a lightsome wing: Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee And move thee on to noble ends. LXVI. You thought my heart too far diseased; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay, Like one with any trifle pleased. The shade by which my life was crost, Which makes a desert in the mind, Has made me kindly with my kind, And like to him whose sight is lost; Whose feet are guided thro’ the land, Whose jest among his friends is free, Who takes the children on his knee, And winds their curls about his hand: He plays with threads, he beats his chair For pastime, dreaming of the sky; His inner day can never die, 455 His night of loss is always there. LXVII. When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls: Thy marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name, And o’er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. LXVIII. When in the down I sink my head, Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, times my breath; Sleep, Death’s twin-brother, knows not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead: I walk as ere I walk’d forlorn, When all our path was fresh with dew, And all the bugle breezes blew Reveillée to the breaking morn. But what is this? I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, Which makes me sad I know not why, Nor can my dream resolve the doubt: 456 But ere the lark hath left the lea I wake, and I discern the truth; It is the trouble of my youth That foolish sleep transfers to thee. LXIX. I dream’d there would be Spring no more, That Nature’s ancient power was lost: The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter’d trifles at the door: I wander’d from the noisy town, I found a wood with thorny boughs: I took the thorns to bind my brows, I wore them like a civic crown: I met with scoffs, I met with scorns From youth and babe and hoary hairs: They call’d me in the public squares The fool that wears a crown of thorns: They call’d me fool, they call’d me child: I found an angel of the night; The voice was low, the look was bright; He look’d upon my crown and smiled: He reach’d the glory of a hand, That seem’d to touch it into leaf: The voice was not the voice of grief, The words were hard to understand. LXX. I cannot see the features right, When on the gloom I strive to paint The face I know; the hues are faint And mix with hollow masks of night; 457 Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, A hand that points, and palled shapes In shadowy thoroughfares of thought; And crowds that stream from yawning doors, And shoals of pucker’d faces drive; Dark bulks that tumble half alive, And lazy lengths on boundless shores; Till all at once beyond the will I hear a wizard music roll, And thro’ a lattice on the soul Looks thy fair face and makes it still. LXXI. Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance And madness, thou hast forged at last A night-long Present of the Past In which we went thro’ summer France. Hadst thou such credit with the soul? Then bring an opiate trebly strong, Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong That so my pleasure may be whole; While now we talk as once we talk’d Of men and minds, the dust of change, The days that grow to something strange, In walking as of old we walk’d Beside the river’s wooded reach, The fortress, and the mountain ridge, The cataract flashing from the bridge, The breaker breaking on the beach. LXXII. 458 Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, And howlest, issuing out of night, With blasts that blow the poplar white, And lash with storm the streaming pane? Day, when my crown’d estate begun To pine in that reverse of doom, Which sicken’d every living bloom, And blurr’d the splendour of the sun; Who usherest in the dolorous hour With thy quick tears that make the rose Pull sideways, and the daisy close Her crimson fringes to the shower; Who might’st have heaved a windless flame Up the deep East, or, whispering, play’d A chequer-work of beam and shade Along the hills, yet look’d the same. As wan, as chill, as wild as now; Day, mark’d as with some hideous crime, When the dark hand struck down thro’ time, And cancell’d nature’s best: but thou, Lift as thou may’st thy burthen’d brows Thro’ clouds that drench the morning star, And whirl the ungarner’d sheaf afar, And sow the sky with flying boughs, And up thy vault with roaring sound Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, And hide thy shame beneath the ground. LXXIII. So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true? 459 The fame is quench’d that I foresaw, The head hath miss’d an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God. O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-infolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name. LXXIV. As sometimes in a dead man’s face, To those that watch it more and more, A likeness, hardly seen before, Comes out–to some one of his race: So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old. But there is more than I can see, And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee. LXXV. I leave thy praises unexpress’d In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief I leave thy greatness to be guess’d; What practice howsoe’er expert 460 In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings, Hath power to give thee as thou wert? I care not in these fading days To raise a cry that lasts not long, And round thee with the breeze of song To stir a little dust of praise. Thy leaf has perish’d in the green, And, while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been. So here shall silence guard thy fame; But somewhere, out of human view, Whate’er thy hands are set to do Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. LXXVI. Take wings of fancy, and ascend, And in a moment set thy face Where all the starry heavens of space Are sharpen’d to a needle’s end; Take wings of foresight; lighten thro’ The secular abyss to come, And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb Before the mouldering of a yew; And if the matin songs, that woke The darkness of our planet, last, Thine own shall wither in the vast, Ere half the lifetime of an oak. Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; And what are they when these remain The ruin’d shells of hollow towers? 461 LXXVII. What hope is here for modern rhyme To him, who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshorten’d in the tract of time? These mortal lullabies of pain May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden’s locks; Or when a thousand moons shall wane A man upon a stall may find, And, passing, turn the page that tells A grief, then changed to something else, Sung by a long-forgotten mind. But what of that? My darken’d ways Shall ring with music all the same; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise. LXXVIII. Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; The silent snow possess’d the earth, And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. As in the winters left behind, Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture’s breathing grace, And dance and song and hoodman-blind. Who show’d a token of distress? 462 No single tear, no mark of pain: O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? O grief, can grief be changed to less? O last regret, regret can die! No–mixt with all this mystic frame, Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry. LXXIX. ‘More than my brothers are to me,’– Let this not vex thee, noble heart! I know thee of what force thou art To hold the costliest love in fee. But thou and I are one in kind, As moulded like in Nature’s mint; And hill and wood and field did print The same sweet forms in either mind. For us the same cold streamlet curl’d Thro’ all his eddying coves; the same All winds that roam the twilight came In whispers of the beauteous world. At one dear knee we proffer’d vows, One lesson from one book we learn’d, Ere childhood’s flaxen ringlet turn’d To black and brown on kindred brows. And so my wealth resembles thine, But he was rich where I was poor, And he supplied my want the more As his unlikeness fitted mine. LXXX. If any vague desire should rise, 463 That holy Death ere Arthur died Had moved me kindly from his side, And dropt the dust on tearless eyes; Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, The grief my loss in him had wrought, A grief as deep as life or thought, But stay’d in peace with God and man. I make a picture in the brain; I hear the sentence that he speaks; He bears the burthen of the weeks But turns his burthen into gain. His credit thus shall set me free; And, influence-rich to soothe and save, Unused example from the grave Reach out dead hands to comfort me. LXXXI. Could I have said while he was here, ‘My love shall now no further range; There cannot come a mellower change, For now is love mature in ear.’ Love, then, had hope of richer store: What end is here to my complaint? This haunting whisper makes me faint, ‘More years had made me love thee more.’ But Death returns an answer sweet: ‘My sudden frost was sudden gain, And gave all ripeness to the grain, It might have drawn from after-heat.’ LXXXII. I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face; 464 No lower life that earth’s embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith. Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks; And these are but the shatter’d stalks, Or ruin’d chrysalis of one. Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth: I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak. LXXXIII. Dip down upon the northern shore, O sweet new-year delaying long; Thou doest expectant nature wrong; Delaying long, delay no more. What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons? Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, The little speedwell’s darling blue, Deep tulips dash’d with fiery dew, Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. O thou, new-year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud And flood a fresher throat with song. 465 LXXXIV. When I contemplate all alone The life that had been thine below, And fix my thoughts on all the glow To which thy crescent would have grown; I see thee sitting crown’d with good, A central warmth diffusing bliss In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, On all the branches of thy blood; Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; For now the day was drawing on, When thou should’st link thy life with one Of mine own house, and boys of thine Had babbled ‘Uncle’ on my knee; But that remorseless iron hour Made cypress of her orange flower, Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. I seem to meet their least desire, To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. I see their unborn faces shine Beside the never-lighted fire. I see myself an honour’d guest, Thy partner in the flowery walk Of letters, genial table-talk, Or deep dispute, and graceful jest; While now thy prosperous labour fills The lips of men with honest praise, And sun by sun the happy days Descend below the golden hills With promise of a morn as fair; And all the train of bounteous hours Conduct by paths of growing powers, To reverence and the silver hair; Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 466 Her lavish mission richly wrought, Leaving great legacies of thought, Thy spirit should fail from off the globe; What time mine own might also flee, As link’d with thine in love and fate, And, hovering o’er the dolorous strait To the other shore, involved in thee, Arrive at last the blessed goal, And He that died in Holy Land Would reach us out the shining hand, And take us as a single soul. What reed was that on which I leant? Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake The old bitterness again, and break The low beginnings of content. LXXXV. This truth came borne with bier and pall, I felt it, when I sorrow’d most, ’Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all– O true in word, and tried in deed, Demanding, so to bring relief To this which is our common grief, What kind of life is that I lead; And whether trust in things above Be dimm’d of sorrow, or sustain’d; And whether love for him have drain’d My capabilities of love; Your words have virtue such as draws A faithful answer from the breast, Thro’ light reproaches, half exprest, And loyal unto kindly laws. 467 My blood an even tenor kept, Till on mine ear this message falls, That in Vienna’s fatal walls God’s finger touch’d him, and he slept. The great Intelligences fair That range above our mortal state, In circle round the blessed gate, Received and gave him welcome there; And led him thro’ the blissful climes, And show'd him in the fountain fresh All knowledge that the sons of flesh Shall gather in the cycled times. But I remained, whose hopes were dim, Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, To wander on a darkened earth, Where all things round me breathed of him. friendship, equal poised control, heart, with kindliest motion warm, sacred essence, other form, solemn ghost, O crowned soul! Yet none could better know than I, How much of act at human hands The sense of human will demands By which we dare to live or die. Whatever way my days decline, I felt and feel, tho’ left alone, His being working in mine own, The footsteps of his life in mine; A life that all the Muses decked With gifts of grace, that might express All comprehensive tenderness, All-subtilising intellect: And so my passion hath not swerved To works of weakness, but I find 468 An image comforting the mind, And in my grief a strength reserved. Likewise the imaginative woe, That loved to handle spiritual strife, Diffused the shock thro’ all my life, But in the present broke the blow. My pulses therefore beat again For other friends that once I met; Nor can it suit me to forget The mighty hopes that make us men. I woo your love: I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch; I, the divided half of such A friendship as had master’d Time; Which masters Time indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears: The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this: But Summer on the steaming floods, And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, That gather in the waning woods, And every pulse of wind and wave Recalls, in change of light or gloom, My old affection of the tomb, And my prime passion in the grave: My old affection of the tomb, A part of stillness, yearns to speak: ‘Arise, and get thee forth and seek A friendship for the years to come. ‘I watch thee from the quiet shore; Thy spirit up to mine can reach; But in dear words of human speech We two communicate no more.’ 469 And I, ‘Can clouds of nature stain The starry clearness of the free? How is it? Canst thou feel for me Some painless sympathy with pain?’ And lightly does the whisper fall; ‘’Tis hard for thee to fathom this; I triumph in conclusive bliss, And that serene result of all.’ So hold I commerce with the dead; Or so methinks the dead would say; Or so shall grief with symbols play And pining life be fancy-fed. Now looking to some settled end, That these things pass, and I shall prove A meeting somewhere, love with love, I crave your pardon, O my friend; If not so fresh, with love as true, I, clasping brother-hands aver I could not, if I would, transfer The whole I felt for him to you. For which be they that hold apart The promise of the golden hours? First love, first friendship, equal powers, That marry with the virgin heart. Still mine, that cannot but deplore, That beats within a lonely place, That yet remembers his embrace, But at his footstep leaps no more, My heart, tho’ widow’d, may not rest Quite in the love of what is gone, But seeks to beat in time with one That warms another living breast. Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 470 Knowing the primrose yet is dear, The primrose of the later year, As not unlike to that of Spring. LXXXVI. Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, That rollest from the gorgeous gloom Of evening over brake and bloom And meadow, slowly breathing bare The round of space, and rapt below Thro’ all the dewy-tassell’d wood, And shadowing down the horned flood In ripples, fan my brows and blow The fever from my cheek, and sigh The full new life that feeds thy breath Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, Ill brethren, let the fancy fly From belt to belt of crimson seas On leagues of odour streaming far, To where in yonder orient star A hundred spirits whisper ‘Peace.’ LXXXVII. I past beside the reverend walls In which of old I wore the gown; I roved at random thro’ the town, And saw the tumult of the halls; And heard one more in college fanes The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder-music, rolling, shake The prophet blazon’d on the panes; And caught one more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars 471 Among the willows; paced the shores And many a bridge, and all about The same gray flats again, and felt The same, but not the same; and last Up that long walk of limes I past To see the rooms in which he dwelt. Another name was on the door: I linger’d; all within was noise Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys That crash’d the glass and beat the floor; Where once we held debate, a band Of youthful friends, on mind and art, And labour, and the changing mart, And all the framework of the land; When one would aim an arrow fair, But send it slackly from the string; And one would pierce an outer ring, And one an inner, here and there; And last the master-bowman, he, Would cleave the mark. A willing ear We lent him. Who, but hung to hear The rapt oration flowing free From point to point, with power and grace And music in the bounds of law, To those conclusions when we saw The God within him light his face, And seem to lift the form, and glow In azure orbits heavenly wise; And over those ethereal eyes The bar of Michael Angelo. LXXXVIII. 472 Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden thro’ the budded quicks, O tell me where the senses mix, O tell me where the passions meet, Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, And in the midmost heart of grief Thy passion clasps a secret joy: And I–my harp would prelude woe– I cannot all command the strings; The glory of the sum of things Will flash along the chords and go. LXXXIX. Witch-elms that counterchange the floor Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright; And thou, with all thy breadth and height Of foliage, towering sycamore; How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, And shook to all the liberal air The dust and din and steam of town: He brought an eye for all he saw; He mixt in all our simple sports; They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts And dusty purlieus of the law. O joy to him in this retreat, Immantled in ambrosial dark, To drink the cooler air, and mark The landscape winking thro’ the heat: O sound to rout the brood of cares, The sweep of scythe in morning dew, The gust that round the garden flew, And tumbled half the mellowing pears! 473 O bliss, when all in circle drawn About him, heart and ear were fed To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poets on the lawn: Or in the all-golden afternoon A guest, or happy sister, sung, Or here she brought the harp and flung A ballad to the brightening moon: Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the livelong summer day With banquet in the distant woods; Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, Discuss’d the books to love or hate, Or touch’d the changes of the state, Or threaded some Socratic dream; But if I praised the busy town, He loved to rail against it still, For ‘ground in yonder social mill We rub each other’s angles down, ‘And merge’ he said ‘in form and gloss The picturesque of man and man.’ We talk’d: the stream beneath us ran, The wine-flask lying couch’d in moss, Or cool’d within the glooming wave; And last, returning from afar, Before the crimson-circled star Had fall’n into her father’s grave, And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honied hours. 474 XC. He tasted love with half his mind, Nor ever drank the inviolate spring Where nighest heaven, who first could fling This bitter seed among mankind; That could the dead, whose dying eyes Were closed with wail, resume their life, They would but find in child and wife An iron welcome when they rise: ’Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine, To pledge them with a kindly tear, To talk them o’er, to wish them here, To count their memories half divine; But if they came who past away, Behold their brides in other hands; The hard heir strides about their lands, And will not yield them for a day. Yea, tho’ their sons were none of these, Not less the yet-loved sire would make Confusion worse than death, and shake The pillars of domestic peace. Ah dear, but come thou back to me: Whatever change the years have wrought, I find not yet one lonely thought That cries against my wish for thee. XCI. When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; Or underneath the barren bush Flits by the sea-blue bird of March; Come, wear the form by which I know Thy spirit in time among thy peers; The hope of unaccomplish’d years 475 Be large and lucid round thy brow. When summer’s hourly-mellowing change May breathe, with many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat, That ripple round the lonely grange; Come: not in watches of the night, But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, Come, beauteous in thine after form, And like a finer light in light. XCII. If any vision should reveal Thy likeness, I might count it vain As but the canker of the brain; Yea, tho’ it spake and made appeal To chances where our lots were cast Together in the days behind, I might but say, I hear a wind Of memory murmuring the past. Yea, tho’ it spake and bared to view A fact within the coming year; And tho’ the months, revolving near, Should prove the phantom-warning true, They might not seem thy prophecies, But spiritual presentiments, And such refraction of events As often rises ere they rise. XCIII. I shall not see thee. Dare I say No spirit ever brake the band That stays him from the native land 476 Where first he walk’d when claspt in clay? No visual shade of some one lost, But he, the Spirit himself, may come Where all the nerve of sense is numb; Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. O, therefore from thy sightless range With gods in unconjectured bliss, O, from the distance of the abyss Of tenfold-complicated change, Descend, and touch, and enter; hear The wish too strong for words to name; That in this blindness of the frame My Ghost may feel that thine is near. XCIV. How pure at heart and sound in head, With what divine affections bold Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour’s communion with the dead. In vain shalt thou, or any, call The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say, My spirit is at peace with all. They haunt the silence of the breast, Imaginations calm and fair, The memory like a cloudless air, The conscience as a sea at rest: But when the heart is full of din, And doubt beside the portal waits, They can but listen at the gates, And hear the household jar within. XCV. 477 By night we linger’d on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry; And genial warmth; and o’er the sky The silvery haze of summer drawn; And calm that let the tapers burn Unwavering: not a cricket chirr’d: The brook alone far-off was heard, And on the board the fluttering urn: And bats went round in fragrant skies, And wheel’d or lit the filmy shapes That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes And woolly breasts and beaded eyes; While now we sang old songs that peal’d From knoll to knoll, where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field. But when those others, one by one, Withdrew themselves from me and night, And in the house light after light Went out, and I was all alone, A hunger seized my heart; I read Of that glad year which once had been, In those fall’n leaves which kept their green, The noble letters of the dead: And strangely on the silence broke The silent-speaking words, and strange Was love’s dumb cry defying change To test his worth; and strangely spoke The faith, the vigour, bold to dwell On doubts that drive the coward back, And keen thro’ wordy snares to track Suggestion to her inmost cell. So word by word, and line by line, The dead man touch’d me from the past, 478 And all at once it seem’d at last The living soul was flash’d on mine, And mine in this was wound, and whirl’d About empyreal heights of thought, And came on that which is, and caught The deep pulsations of the world, Æonian music measuring out The steps of Time–the shocks of Chance– The blows of Death. At length my trance Was cancell’d, stricken thro’ with doubt. Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame In matter-moulded forms of speech, Or ev’n for intellect to reach Thro’ memory that which I became: Till now the doubtful dusk reveal’d The knolls once more where, couch’d at ease, The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field: And suck’d from out the distant gloom A breeze began to tremble o’er The large leaves of the sycamore, And fluctuate all the still perfume, And gathering freshlier overhead, Rock’d the full-foliaged elms, and swung The heavy-folded rose, and flung The lilies to and fro, and said ‘The dawn, the dawn,’ and died away; And East and West, without a breath, Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, To broaden into boundless day. XCVI. 479 You say, but with no touch of scorn, Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies, You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. I know not: one indeed I knew In many a subtle question versed, Who touch’d a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true: Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds. He fought his doubts and gather’d strength, He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind And laid them: thus he came at length To find a stronger faith his own; And Power was with him in the night, Which makes the darkness and the light, And dwells not in the light alone, But in the darkness and the cloud, As over Sinaï’s peaks of old, While Israel made their gods of gold, Altho’ the trumpet blew so loud. XCVII. My love has talk’d with rocks and trees; He finds on misty mountain-ground His own vast shadow glory-crown’d; He sees himself in all he sees. Two partners of a married life– I look’d on these and thought of thee In vastness and in mystery, And of my spirit as of a wife. 480 These two–they dwelt with eye on eye, Their hearts of old have beat in tune, Their meetings made December June, Their every parting was to die. Their love has never past away; The days she never can forget Are earnest that he loves her yet, Whate’er the faithless people say. Her life is lone, he sits apart, He loves her yet, she will not weep, Tho’ rapt in matters dark and deep He seems to slight her simple heart. He He He He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, reads the secret of the star, seems so near and yet so far, looks so cold: she thinks him kind. She keeps the gift of years before, A wither’d violet is her bliss: She knows not what his greatness is, For that, for all, she loves him more. For him she plays, to him she sings Of early faith and plighted vows; She knows but matters of the house, And he, he knows a thousand things. Her faith is fixt and cannot move, She darkly feels him great and wise, She dwells on him with faithful eyes, ‘I cannot understand: I love.’ XCVIII. You leave us: you will see the Rhine, And those fair hills I sail’d below, When I was there with him; and go 481 By summer belts of wheat and vine To where he breathed his latest breath, That City. All her splendour seems No livelier than the wisp that gleams On Lethe in the eyes of Death. Let her great Danube rolling fair Enwind her isles, unmark’d of me: I have not seen, I will not see Vienna; rather dream that there, A treble darkness, Evil haunts The birth, the bridal; friend from friend Is oftener parted, fathers bend Above more graves, a thousand wants Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey By each cold hearth, and sadness flings Her shadow on the blaze of kings: And yet myself have heard him say, That not in any mother town With statelier progress to and fro The double tides of chariots flow By park and suburb under brown Of lustier leaves; nor more content, He told me, lives in any crowd, When all is gay with lamps, and loud With sport and song, in booth and tent, Imperial halls, or open plain; And wheels the circled dance, and breaks The rocket molten into flakes Of crimson or in emerald rain. XCIX. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, So loud with voices of the birds, 482 So thick with lowings of the herds, Day, when I lost the flower of men; Who tremblest thro’ thy darkling red On yon swoll’n brook that bubbles fast By meadows breathing of the past, And woodlands holy to the dead; Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves A song that slights the coming care, And Autumn laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves; Who wakenest with thy balmy breath To myriads on the genial earth, Memories of bridal, or of birth, And unto myriads more, of death. O wheresoever those may be, Betwixt the slumber of the poles, To-day they count as kindred souls; They know me not, but mourn with me. C. I climb the hill: from end to end Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that does not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend; No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Or low morass and whispering reed, Or simple stile from mead to mead, Or sheepwalk up the windy wold; Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trench’d along the hill And haunted by the wrangling daw; Nor runlet tinkling from the rock; Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 483 To left and right thro’ meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock; But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day; And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die. CI. Unwatch’d, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved, that beech will gather brown, This maple burn itself away; Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air; Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star; Uncared for, gird the windy grove, And flood the haunts of hern and crake; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove; Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger’s child; As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills. 484 CII. We leave the well-beloved place Where first we gazed upon the sky; The roofs, that heard our earliest cry, Will shelter one of stranger race. We go, but ere we go from home, As down the garden-walks I move, Two spirits of a diverse love Contend for loving masterdom. One whispers, ‘Here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love-language of the bird In native hazels tassel-hung.’ The other answers, ‘Yea, but here Thy feet have stray’d in after hours With thy lost friend among the bowers, And this hath made them trebly dear.’ These two have striven half the day, And each prefers his separate claim, Poor rivals in a losing game, That will not yield each other way. I turn to go: my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms; They mix in one another’s arms To one pure image of regret. CIII. On that last night before we went From out the doors where I was bred, I dream’d a vision of the dead, Which left my after-morn content. Methought I dwelt within a hall, And maidens with me: distant hills 485 From hidden summits fed with rills A river sliding by the wall. The hall with harp and carol rang. They sang of what is wise and good And graceful. In the centre stood A statue veil’d, to which they sang; And which, tho’ veil’d, was known to me, The shape of him I loved, and love For ever: then flew in a dove And brought a summons from the sea: And when they learnt that I must go They wept and wail’d, but led the way To where a little shallop lay At anchor in the flood below; And on by many a level mead, And shadowing bluff that made the banks, We glided winding under ranks Of iris, and the golden reed; And still as vaster grew the shore And roll’d the floods in grander space, The maidens gather’d strength and grace And presence, lordlier than before; And I myself, who sat apart And watch’d them, wax’d in every limb; I felt the thews of Anakim, The pulses of a Titan’s heart; As one would sing the death of war, And one would chant the history Of that great race, which is to be, And one the shaping of a star; Until the forward-creeping tides Began to foam, and we to draw From deep to deep, to where we saw A great ship lift her shining sides. 486 The man we loved was there on deck, But thrice as large as man he bent To greet us. Up the side I went, And fell in silence on his neck: Whereat those maidens with one mind Bewail’d their lot; I did them wrong: ‘We served thee here’ they said, ‘so long, And wilt thou leave us now behind?’ So rapt I was, they could not win An answer from my lips, but he Replying, ‘Enter likewise ye And go with us:’ they enter’d in. And while the wind began to sweep A music out of sheet and shroud, We steer’d her toward a crimson cloud That landlike slept along the deep. CIV. The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid, the night is still; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist. A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know. Like strangers’ voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow’d ground. CV. 487 To-night ungather’d let us leave This laurel, let this holly stand: We live within the stranger’s land, And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. Our father’s dust is left alone And silent under other snows: There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone. No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime; For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use. Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold it solemn to the past. But let no footstep beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm; For who would keep an ancient form Thro’ which the spirit breathes no more? Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; Nor harp be touch’d, nor flute be blown; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good. CVI. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; 488 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring Ring Ring Ring out old shapes of foul disease; out the narrowing lust of gold; out the thousand wars of old, in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. CVII. It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank 489 Behind a purple-frosty bank Of vapour, leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that pass To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass; Bring in great logs and let them lie, To make a solid core of heat; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev’n as he were by; We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate’er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear. CVIII. I will not shut me from my kind, And, lest I stiffen into stone, I will not eat my heart alone, Nor feed with sighs a passing wind: What profit lies in barren faith, And vacant yearning, tho’ with might To scale the heaven’s highest height, Or dive below the wells of Death? What find I in the highest place, But mine own phantom chanting hymns? 490 And on the depths of death there swims The reflex of a human face. I'll rather take what fruit may be Of sorrow under human skies: ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise, Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. CIX. Heart-affluence in discursive talk From household fountains never dry; The critic clearness of an eye, That saw thro’ all the Muses’ walk; Seraphic intellect and force To seize and throw the doubts of man; Impassion’d logic, which outran The hearer in its fiery course; High nature amorous of the good, But touch’d with no ascetic gloom; And passion pure in snowy bloom Thro’ all the years of April blood; A love of freedom rarely felt, Of freedom in her regal seat Of England; not the schoolboy heat, The blind hysterics of the Celt; And manhood fused with female grace In such a sort, the child would twine A trustful hand, unask’d, in thine, And find his comfort in thy face; All these have been, and thee mine eyes Have look’d on: if they look’d in vain, My shame is greater who remain, Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 491 CX. Thy converse drew us with delight, The men of rathe and riper years: The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, Forgot his weakness in thy sight. On thee the loyal-hearted hung, The proud was half disarm’d of pride, Nor cared the serpent at thy side To flicker with his double tongue. The stern were mild when thou wert by, The flippant put himself to school And heard thee, and the brazen fool Was soften’d, and he knew not why; While I, thy nearest, sat apart, And felt thy triumph was as mine; And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art; Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will. CXI. The churl in spirit, up or down Along the scale of ranks, thro’ all, To him who grasps a golden ball, By blood a king, at heart a clown; The churl in spirit, howe’er he veil His want in forms for fashion’s sake, Will let his coltish nature break At seasons thro’ the gilded pale: For who can always act? but he, To whom a thousand memories call, 492 Not being less but more than all The gentleness he seem’d to be, Best seem’d the thing he was, and join’d Each office of the social hour To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind; Nor ever narrowness or spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by, Drew in the expression of an eye, Where God and Nature met in light; And thus he bore without abuse The grand old name of gentleman, Defamed by every charlatan, And soil’d with all ignoble use. CXII. High wisdom holds my wisdom less, That I, who gaze with temperate eyes On glorious insufficiencies, Set light by narrower perfectness. But thou, that fillest all the room Of all my love, art reason why I seem to cast a careless eye On souls, the lesser lords of doom. For what wert thou? some novel power Sprang up for ever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much, In watching thee from hour to hour, Large elements in order brought, And tracts of calm from tempest made, And world-wide fluctuation sway’d In vassal tides that follow’d thought. 493 CXIII. ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise; Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee Which not alone had guided me, But served the seasons that may rise; For can I doubt, who knew thee keen In intellect, with force and skill To strive, to fashion, to fulfil– I doubt not what thou wouldst have been: life in civic action warm, soul on highest mission sent, potent voice of Parliament, pillar steadfast in the storm, Should licensed boldness gather force, Becoming, when the time has birth, A lever to uplift the earth And roll it in another course, With thousand shocks that come and go, With agonies, with energies, With overthrowings, and with cries, And undulations to and fro. CXIV. Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty? May she mix With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail. But on her forehead sits a fire: She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain– She cannot fight the fear of death. 494 What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild Pallas from the brain Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst All barriers in her onward race For power. Let her know her place; She is the second, not the first. A higher hand must make her mild, If all be not in vain; and guide Her footsteps, moving side by side With wisdom, like the younger child: For she is earthly of the mind, But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. O, friend, who camest to thy goal So early, leaving me behind, I would the great world grew like thee, Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity. CXV. Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown’d in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 495 In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. CXVI. Is it, then, regret for buried time That keenlier in sweet April wakes, And meets the year, and gives and takes The colours of the crescent prime? Not all: the songs, the stirring air, The life re-orient out of dust, Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust In that which made the world so fair. Not all regret: the face will shine Upon me, while I muse alone; And that dear voice, I once have known, Still speak to me of me and mine: Yet less of sorrow lives in me For days of happy commune dead; Less yearning for the friendship fled, Than some strong bond which is to be. CXVII. O days and hours, your work is this To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace For fuller gain of after bliss: That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet; 496 And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue, For every grain of sand that runs, And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels, And all the courses of the suns. CXVIII. Contemplate all this work of Time, The giant labouring in his youth; Nor dream of human love and truth, As dying Nature’s earth and lime; But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampler day For ever nobler ends. They say, The solid earth whereon we tread In tracts of fluent heat began, And grew to seeming-random forms, The seeming prey of cyclic storms, Till at the last arose the man; Who throve and branch’d from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more; Or, crown’d with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter’d with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly 497 The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die. CXIX. Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, not as one that weeps I come once more; the city sleeps; I smell the meadow in the street; I hear a chirp of birds; I see Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn A light-blue lane of early dawn, And think of early days and thee, And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh I take the pressure of thine hand. CXX. I trust I have not wasted breath: I think we are not wholly brain, Magnetic mockeries; not in vain, Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; Not only cunning casts in clay: Let Science prove we are, and then What matters Science unto men, At least to me? I would not stay. Let him, the wiser man who springs Hereafter, up from childhood shape His action like the greater ape, But I was born to other things. 498 CXXI. Sad Hesper o’er the buried sun And ready, thou, to die with him, Thou watchest all things ever dim And dimmer, and a glory done: The team is loosen’d from the wain, The boat is drawn upon the shore; Thou listenest to the closing door, And life is darken’d in the brain. Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, By thee the world’s great work is heard Beginning, and the wakeful bird; Behind thee comes the greater light: The market boat is on the stream, And voices hail it from the brink; Thou hear’st the village hammer clink, And see’st the moving of the team. Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name For what is one, the first, the last, Thou, like my present and my past, Thy place is changed; thou art the same. CXXII. Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, While I rose up against my doom, And yearn’d to burst the folded gloom, To bare the eternal Heavens again, To feel once more, in placid awe, The strong imagination roll A sphere of stars about my soul, In all her motion one with law; If thou wert with me, and the grave Divide us not, be with me now, And enter in at breast and brow, 499 Till all my blood, a fuller wave, Be quicken’d with a livelier breath, And like an inconsiderate boy, As in the former flash of joy, I slip the thoughts of life and death; And all the breeze of Fancy blows, And every dew-drop paints a bow, The wizard lightnings deeply glow, And every thought breaks out a rose. CXXIII. There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell, And dream my dream, and hold it true; For tho’ my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell. CXXIV. That which we dare invoke to bless; Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; He, They, One, All; within, without; The Power in darkness whom we guess; I found Him not in world or sun, Or eagle’s wing, or insect’s eye; Nor thro’ the questions men may try, The petty cobwebs we have spun: 500 If e’er when faith had fall’n asleep, I heard a voice ‘believe no more’ And heard an ever-breaking shore That tumbled in the Godless deep; A warmth within the breast would melt The freezing reason’s colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart Stood up and answer’d ‘I have felt.’ No, like a child in doubt and fear: But that blind clamour made me wise; Then was I as a child that cries, But, crying, knows his father near; And what I am beheld again What is, and no man understands; And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro’ nature, moulding men. CXXV. Whatever I have said or sung, Some bitter notes my harp would give, Yea, tho’ there often seem’d to live A contradiction on the tongue, Yet Hope had never lost her youth; She did but look through dimmer eyes; Or Love but play’d with gracious lies, Because he felt so fix’d in truth: And if the song were full of care, He breathed the spirit of the song; And if the words were sweet and strong He set his royal signet there; Abiding with me till I sail To seek thee on the mystic deeps, And this electric force, that keeps 501 A thousand pulses dancing, fail. CXXVI. Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend, Which every hour his couriers bring. Love is and was my King and Lord, And will be, tho’ as yet I keep Within his court on earth, and sleep Encompass’d by his faithful guard, And hear at times a sentinel Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds of space, In the deep night, that all is well. CXXVII. And all is well, tho’ faith and form Be sunder’d in the night of fear; Well roars the storm to those that hear A deeper voice across the storm, Proclaiming social truth shall spread, And justice, ev’n tho’ thrice again The red fool-fury of the Seine Should pile her barricades with dead. But ill for him that wears a crown, And him, the lazar, in his rags: They tremble, the sustaining crags; The spires of ice are toppled down, And molten up, and roar in flood; The fortress crashes from on high, The brute earth lightens to the sky, And the great Æon sinks in blood, 502 And compass’d by the fires of Hell; While thou, dear spirit, happy star, O’erlook’st the tumult from afar, And smilest, knowing all is well. CXXVIII. The love that rose on stronger wings, Unpalsied when he met with Death, Is comrade of the lesser faith That sees the course of human things. No doubt vast eddies in the flood Of onward time shall yet be made, And throned races may degrade; Yet O ye mysteries of good, Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, If all your office had to do With old results that look like new; If this were all your mission here, To To To To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, fool the crowd with glorious lies, cleave a creed in sects and cries, change the bearing of a word, To shift an arbitrary power, To cramp the student at his desk, To make old bareness picturesque And tuft with grass a feudal tower; Why then my scorn might well descend On you and yours. I see in part That all, as in some piece of art, Is toil coöperant to an end. CXXIX. 503 Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, So far, so near in woe and weal; O loved the most, when most I feel There is a lower and a higher; Known and unknown; human, divine; Sweet human hand and lips and eye; Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine; Strange friend, past, present, and to be; Loved deeplier, darklier understood; Behold, I dream a dream of good, And mingle all the world with thee. CXXX. Thy voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair. What art thou then? I cannot guess; But tho’ I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less: My love involves the love before; My love is vaster passion now; Tho’ mix’d with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more. Far off thou art, but ever nigh; I have thee still, and I rejoice; I prosper, circled with thy voice; I shall not lose thee tho’ I die. CXXXI. 504 O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow thro’ our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquer’d years To one that with us works, and trust, With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul. _________ O true and tried, so well and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song. Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; Tho’ I since then have number’d o’er Some thrice three years: they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, And yet is love not less, but more; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm. Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before; Which makes appear the songs I made 505 As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade. But where is she, the bridal flower, That must he made a wife ere noon? She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower: On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise. O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good. And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower. But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear. For I that danced her on my knee, That watch’d her on her nurse’s arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead; Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, The ‘wilt thou’ answer’d, and again The ‘wilt thou’ ask’d, till out of twain 506 Her sweet ‘I will’ has made you one. Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are sign’d, and overhead Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells. O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them–maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side. To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea. Let all my genial spirits advance To meet and greet a whiter sun; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France. It circles round, and fancy plays, And hearts are warm’d and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days. Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho’ in silence, wishing joy. 507 But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favour’d horses wait; They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. A shade falls on us like the dark From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass To range the woods, to roam the park, Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed, And how she look’d, and what he said, And back we come at fall of dew. Again the feast, the speech, the glee, The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times-three, And last the dance;–till I retire: Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, And high in heaven the streaming cloud, And on the downs a rising fire: And rise, O moon, from yonder down, Till over down and over dale All night the shining vapour sail And pass the silent-lighted town, The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, And catch at every mountain head, And o’er the friths that branch and spread Their sleeping silver thro’ the hills; And touch with shade the bridal doors, With tender gloom the roof, the wall; And breaking let the splendour fall To spangle all the happy shores By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, 508 A soul shall draw from out the vast And strike his being into bounds, And, moved thro’ life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race Of those that, eye to eye, shall look On knowledge; under whose command Is Earth and Earth’s, and in their hand Is Nature like an open book; No longer half-akin to brute, For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffer’d, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit; Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a noble type Appearing ere the times were ripe, That friend of mine who lives in God, That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves. ~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,

889:A Lyrical Drama, In Four Acts. Audisne haec amphiarae, sub terram abdite? ACT I Scene.A Ravine of Icy Rocks in the Indian Caucasus. Prometheus is discovered bound to the Precipice. Panthea andIone are seated at his feet. Time, night. During the Scene, morning slowly breaks. Prometheus. Monarch of Gods and Dmons, and all Spirits But One, who throng those bright and rolling worlds Which Thou and I alone of living things Behold with sleepless eyes! regard this Earth Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom thou Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and praise, And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts, With fear and self-contempt and barren hope. Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in hate, Hast thou made reign and triumph, to thy scorn, O'er mine own misery and thy vain revenge. Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours, And moments aye divided by keen pangs Till they seemed years, torture and solitude, Scorn and despair,these are mine empire: More glorious far than that which thou surveyest From thine unenvied throne, O Mighty God! Almighty, had I deigned to share the shame Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling mountain, Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without herb, Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life. Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever! No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure. I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt? I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun, Has it not seen? The Sea, in storm or calm, Heaven's ever-changing Shadow, spread below, Have its deaf waves not heard my agony? Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever! The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears Of their moon-freezing crystals, the bright chains Eat with their burning cold into my bones. Heaven's wingd hound, polluting from thy lips His beak in poison not his own, tears up My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by, The ghastly people of the realm of dream, Mocking me: and the Earthquake-fiends are charged To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds When the rocks split and close again behind: While from their loud abysses howling throng The genii of the storm, urging the rage Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail. And yet to me welcome is day and night, Whether one breaks the hoar frost of the morn, Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs The leaden-coloured east; for then they lead The wingless, crawling hours, one among whom As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood From these pale feet, which then might trample thee If they disdained not such a prostrate slave. Disdain! Ah no! I pity thee. What ruin Will hunt thee undefended through wide Heaven! How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, Gape like a hell within! I speak in grief, Not exultation, for I hate no more, As then ere misery made me wise. The curse Once breathed on thee I would recall. Ye Mountains, Whose many-voicd Echoes, through the mist Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that spell! Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling frost, Which vibrated to hear me, and then crept Shuddering through India! Thou serenest Air, Through which the Sun walks burning without beams! And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poisd wings Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed abyss, As thunder, louder than your own, made rock The orbd world! If then my words had power, Though I am changed so that aught evil wish Is dead within; although no memory be Of what is hate, let them not lose it now! What was that curse? for ye all heard me speak. First Voice (from the Mountains). Thrice three hundred thousand years O'er the Earthquake's couch we stood: Oft, as men convulsed with fears, We trembled in our multitude. Second Voice (from the Springs). Thunderbolts had parched our water, We had been stained with bitter blood, And had run mute, 'mid shrieks of slaughter, Thro' a city and a solitude. Third Voice (from the Air). I had clothed, since Earth uprose, Its wastes in colours not their own, And oft had my serene repose Been cloven by many a rending groan. Fourth Voice (from the Whirlwinds). We had soared beneath these mountains Unresting ages; nor had thunder, Nor yon volcano's flaming fountains, Nor any power above or under Ever made us mute with wonder. First Voice. But never bowed our snowy crest As at the voice of thine unrest. Second Voice. Never such a sound before To the Indian waves we bore. A pilot asleep on the howling sea Leaped up from the deck in agony, And heard, and cried, 'Ah, woe is me!' And died as mad as the wild waves be. Third Voice. By such dread words from Earth to Heaven My still realm was never riven: When its wound was closed, there stood Darkness o'er the day like blood. Fourth Voice. And we shrank back: for dreams of ruin To frozen caves our flight pursuing Made us keep silencethusand thus Though silence is as hell to us. The Earth. The tongueless Caverns of the craggy hills Cried, 'Misery!' then; the hollow Heaven replied, 'Misery!' And the Ocean's purple waves, Climbing the land, howled to the lashing winds, And the pale nations heard it, 'Misery!' Prometheus. I heard a sound of voices: not the voice Which I gave forth. Mother, thy sons and thou Scorn him, without whose all-enduring will Beneath the fierce omnipotence of Jove, Both they and thou had vanished, like thin mist Unrolled on the morning wind. Know ye not me, The Titan? He who made his agony The barrier to your else all-conquering foe? Oh, rock-embosomed lawns, and snow-fed streams, Now seen athwart frore vapours, deep below, Through whose o'ershadowing woods I wandered once With Asia, drinking life from her loved eyes; Why scorns the spirit which informs ye, now To commune with me? me alone, who checked, As one who checks a fiend-drawn charioteer, The falsehood and the force of him who reigns Supreme, and with the groans of pining slaves Fills your dim glens and liquid wildernesses: Why answer ye not, still? Brethren! The Earth.                    They dare not.                    Prometheus. Who dares? for I would hear that curse again. Ha, what an awful whisper rises up! 'Tis scarce like sound: it tingles through the frame As lightning tingles, hovering ere it strike. Speak, Spirit! from thine inorganic voice I only know that thou art moving near And love. How cursed I him? The Earth.                How canst thou hear Who knowest not the language of the dead? Prometheus. Thou art a living spirit; speak as they. The Earth. I dare not speak like life, lest Heaven's fell King Should hear, and link me to some wheel of pain More torturing than the one whereon I roll. Subtle thou art and good, and though the Gods Hear not this voice, yet thou art more than God, Being wise and kind: earnestly hearken now. Prometheus. Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim, Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick. I feel Faint, like one mingled in entwining love; Yet 'tis not pleasure. The Earth.             No, thou canst not hear: Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known Only to those who die. Prometheus.             And what art thou, O, melancholy Voice? The Earth.            I am the Earth, Thy mother; she within whose stony veins, To the last fibre of the loftiest tree Whose thin leaves trembled in the frozen air, Joy ran, as blood within a living frame, When thou didst from her bosom, like a cloud Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy! And at thy voice her pining sons uplifted Their prostrate brows from the polluting dust, And our almighty Tyrant with fierce dread Grew pale, until his thunder chained thee here. Then, see those million worlds which burn and roll Around us: their inhabitants beheld My spherd light wane in wide Heaven; the sea Was lifted by strange tempest, and new fire From earthquake-rifted mountains of bright snow Shook its portentous hair beneath Heaven's frown; Lightning and Inundation vexed the plains; Blue thistles bloomed in cities; foodless toads Within voluptuous chambers panting crawled: When Plague had fallen on man, and beast, and worm, And Famine; and black blight on herb and tree; And in the corn, and vines, and meadow-grass, Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds Draining their growth, for my wan breast was dry With grief; and the thin air, my breath, was stained With the contagion of a mother's hate Breathed on her child's destroyer; ay, I heard Thy curse, the which, if thou rememberest not, Yet my innumerable seas and streams, Mountains, and caves, and winds, and yon wide air, And the inarticulate people of the dead, Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate In secret joy and hope those dreadful words, But dare not speak them. Prometheus.              Venerable mother! All else who live and suffer take from thee Some comfort; flowers, and fruits, and happy sounds, And love, though fleeting; these may not be mine. But mine own words, I pray, deny me not. The Earth. They shall be told. Ere Babylon was dust, The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child, Met his own image walking in the garden. That apparition, sole of men, he saw. For know there are two worlds of life and death: One that which thou beholdest; but the other Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit The shadows of all forms that think and live Till death unite them and they part no more; Dreams and the light imaginings of men, And all that faith creates or love desires, Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous shapes. There thou art, and dost hang, a writhing shade, 'Mid whirlwind-peopled mountains; all the gods Are there, and all the powers of nameless worlds, Vast, sceptred phantoms; heroes, men, and beasts; And Demogorgon, a tremendous gloom; And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his throne Of burning gold. Son, one of these shall utter The curse which all remember. Call at will Thine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter, Hades or Typhon, or what mightier Gods From all-prolific Evil, since thy ruin Have sprung, and trampled on my prostrate sons. Ask, and they must reply: so the revenge Of the Supreme may sweep through vacant shades, As rainy wind through the abandoned gate Of a fallen palace. Prometheus.           Mother, let not aught Of that which may be evil, pass again My lips, or those of aught resembling me. Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear! Ione. My wings are folded o'er mine ears:   My wings are crossd o'er mine eyes: Yet through their silver shade appears,   And through their lulling plumes arise, A Shape, a throng of sounds;   May it be no ill to thee O thou of many wounds! Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake, Ever thus we watch and wake. Panthea. The sound is of whirlwind underground,   Earthquake, and fire, and mountains cloven; The shape is awful like the sound,   Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven. A sceptre of pale gold   To stay steps proud, o'er the slow cloud His veind hand doth hold. Cruel he looks, but calm and strong, Like one who does, not suffers wrong. Phantasm of Jupiter. Why have the secret powers of this strange world Driven me, a frail and empty phantom, hither On direst storms? What unaccustomed sounds Are hovering on my lips, unlike the voice With which our pallid race hold ghastly talk In darkness? And, proud sufferer, who art thou? Prometheus. Tremendous Image, as thou art must be He whom thou shadowest forth. I am his foe, The Titan. Speak the words which I would hear, Although no thought inform thine empty voice. The Earth. Listen! And though your echoes must be mute, Gray mountains, and old woods, and haunted springs, Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding streams, Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak. Phantasm. A spirit seizes me and speaks within: It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud. Panthea. See, how he lifts his mighty looks, the Heaven Darkens above. Ione.        He speaks! O shelter me!        Prometheus. I see the curse on gestures proud and cold, And looks of firm defiance, and calm hate, And such despair as mocks itself with smiles, Written as on a scroll: yet speak: Oh, speak! Phantasm. Fiend, I defy thee! with a calm, fixed mind,   All that thou canst inflict I bid thee do; Foul Tyrant both of Gods and Human-kind,   One only being shalt thou not subdue. Rain then thy plagues upon me here, Ghastly disease, and frenzying fear; And let alternate frost and fire Eat into me, and be thine ire Lightning, and cutting hail, and legioned forms Of furies, driving by upon the wounding storms. Ay, do thy worst. Thou art omnipotent.   O'er all things but thyself I gave thee power, And my own will. Be thy swift mischiefs sent   To blast mankind, from yon ethereal tower. Let thy malignant spirit move In darkness over those I love: On me and mine I imprecate The utmost torture of thy hate; And thus devote to sleepless agony, This undeclining head while thou must reign on high. But thou, who art the God and Lord: O, thou,   Who fillest with thy soul this world of woe, To whom all things of Earth and Heaven do bow   In fear and worship: all-prevailing foe! I curse thee! let a sufferer's curse Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse; Till thine Infinity shall be A robe of envenomed agony; And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain, To cling like burning gold round thy dissolving brain. Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this Curse,   Ill deeds, then be thou damned, beholding good; Both infinite as is the universe,   And thou, and thy self-torturing solitude. An awful image of calm power Though now thou sittest, let the hour Come, when thou must appear to be That which thou art internally; And after many a false and fruitless crime Scorn track thy lagging fall through boundless space and time. Prometheus. Were these my words, O Parent? The Earth.                 They were thine.                 Prometheus. It doth repent me: words are quick and vain; Grief for awhile is blind, and so was mine. I wish no living thing to suffer pain. The Earth. Misery, Oh misery to me, That Jove at length should vanquish thee. Wail, howl aloud, Land and Sea, The Earth's rent heart shall answer ye. Howl, Spirits of the living and the dead, Your refuge, your defence lies fallen and vanquishd. First Echo. Lies fallen and vanquishd! Second Echo. Fallen and vanquishd! Ione. Fear not: 'tis but some passing spasm, The Titan is unvanquished still. But see, where through the azure chasm Of yon forked and snowy hill Trampling the slant winds on high With golden-sandalled feet, that glow Under plumes of purple dye, Like rose-ensanguined ivory, A Shape comes now, Stretching on high from his right hand A serpent-cinctured wand. Panthea. 'Tis Jove's world-wandering herald, Mercury. Ione. And who are those with hydra tresses And iron wings that climb the wind, Whom the frowning God represses Like vapours steaming up behind, Clanging loud, an endless crowd Panthea. These are Jove's tempest-walking hounds, Whom he gluts with groans and blood, When charioted on sulphurous cloud He bursts Heaven's bounds. Ione. Are they now led, from the thin dead On new pangs to be fed? Panthea. The Titan looks as ever, firm, not proud. First Fury. Ha! I scent life! Second Fury.          Let me but look into his eyes!          Third Fury. The hope of torturing him smells like a heap Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. First Fury. Darest thou delay, O Herald! take cheer, Hounds Of Hell: what if the Son of Maia soon Should make us food and sportwho can please long The Omnipotent? Mercury.         Back to your towers of iron, And gnash, beside the streams of fire and wail, Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise! and Gorgon, Chimra, and thou Sphinx, subtlest of fiends Who ministered to Thebes Heaven's poisoned wine, Unnatural love, and more unnatural hate: These shall perform your task. First Fury.                 Oh, mercy! mercy! We die with our desire: drive us not back! Mercury. Crouch then in silence.             Awful Sufferer! To thee unwilling, most unwillingly I come, by the great Father's will driven down, To execute a doom of new revenge. Alas! I pity thee, and hate myself That I can do no more: aye from thy sight Returning, for a season, Heaven seems Hell, So thy worn form pursues me night and day, Smiling reproach. Wise art thou, firm and good, But vainly wouldst stand forth alone in strife Against the Omnipotent; as yon clear lamps That measure and divide the weary years From which there is no refuge, long have taught And long must teach. Even now thy Torturer arms With the strange might of unimagined pains The powers who scheme slow agonies in Hell, And my commission is to lead them here, Or what more subtle, foul, or savage fiends People the abyss, and leave them to their task. Be it not so! there is a secret known To thee, and to none else of living things, Which may transfer the sceptre of wide Heaven, The fear of which perplexes the Supreme: Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp his throne In intercession; bend thy soul in prayer, And like a suppliant in some gorgeous fane, Let the will kneel within thy haughty heart: For benefits and meek submission tame The fiercest and the mightiest. Prometheus.                  Evil minds Change good to their own nature. I gave all He has; and in return he chains me here Years, ages, night and day: whether the Sun Split my parched skin, or in the moony night The crystal-wingd snow cling round my hair: Whilst my belovd race is trampled down By his thought-executing ministers. Such is the tyrant's recompense: 'tis just: He who is evil can receive no good; And for a world bestowed, or a friend lost, He can feel hate, fear, shame; not gratitude: He but requites me for his own misdeed. Kindness to such is keen reproach, which breaks With bitter stings the light sleep of Revenge. Submission, thou dost know I cannot try: For what submission but that fatal word, The death-seal of mankind's captivity, Like the Sicilian's hair-suspended sword, Which trembles o'er his crown, would he accept, Or could I yield? Which yet I will not yield. Let others flatter Crime, where it sits throned In brief Omnipotence: secure are they: For Justice, when triumphant, will weep down Pity, not punishment, on her own wrongs, Too much avenged by those who err. I wait, Enduring thus, the retributive hour Which since we spake is even nearer now. But hark, the hell-hounds clamour: fear delay: Behold! Heaven lowers under thy Father's frown. Mercury. Oh, that we might be spared: I to inflict And thou to suffer! Once more answer me: Thou knowest not the period of Jove's power? Prometheus. I know but this, that it must come. Mercury.                    Alas! Thou canst not count thy years to come of pain? Prometheus. They last while Jove must reign: nor more, nor less Do I desire or fear. Mercury.            Yet pause, and plunge Into Eternity, where recorded time, Even all that we imagine, age on age, Seems but a point, and the reluctant mind Flags wearily in its unending flight, Till it sink, dizzy, blind, lost, shelterless; Perchance it has not numbered the slow years Which thou must spend in torture, unreprieved? Prometheus. Perchance no thought can count them, yet they pass. Mercury. If thou might'st dwell among the Gods the while Lapped in voluptuous joy? Prometheus.               I would not quit This bleak ravine, these unrepentant pains. Mercury. Alas! I wonder at, yet pity thee. Prometheus. Pity the self-despising slaves of Heaven, Not me, within whose mind sits peace serene, As light in the sun, throned: how vain is talk! Call up the fiends. Ione.           O, sister, look! White fire Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow-loaded cedar; How fearfully God's thunder howls behind! Mercury. I must obey his words and thine: alas! Most heavily remorse hangs at my heart! Panthea. See where the child of Heaven, with wingd feet, Runs down the slanted sunlight of the dawn. Ione. Dear sister, close thy plumes over thine eyes Lest thou behold and die: they come: they come Blackening the birth of day with countless wings, And hollow underneath, like death. First Fury.                   Prometheus!                   Second Fury. Immortal Titan! Third Fury.         Champion of Heaven's slaves!         Prometheus. He whom some dreadful voice invokes is here, Prometheus, the chained Titan. Horrible forms, What and who are ye? Never yet there came Phantasms so foul through monster-teeming Hell From the all-miscreative brain of Jove; Whilst I behold such execrable shapes, Methinks I grow like what I contemplate, And laugh and stare in loathsome sympathy. First Fury. We are the ministers of pain, and fear, And disappointment, and mistrust, and hate, And clinging crime; and as lean dogs pursue Through wood and lake some struck and sobbing fawn, We track all things that weep, and bleed, and live, When the great King betrays them to our will. Prometheus. Oh! many fearful natures in one name, I know ye; and these lakes and echoes know The darkness and the clangour of your wings. But why more hideous than your loathd selves Gather ye up in legions from the deep? Second Fury. We knew not that: Sisters, rejoice, rejoice! Prometheus. Can aught exult in its deformity? Second Fury. The beauty of delight makes lovers glad, Gazing on one another: so are we. As from the rose which the pale priestess kneels To gather for her festal crown of flowers The areal crimson falls, flushing her cheek, So from our victim's destined agony The shade which is our form invests us round, Else we are shapeless as our mother Night. Prometheus. I laugh your power, and his who sent you here, To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of pain. First Fury. Thou thinkest we will rend thee bone from bone, And nerve from nerve, working like fire within? Prometheus. Pain is my element, as hate is thine; Ye rend me now: I care not. Second Fury.                Dost imagine We will but laugh into thy lidless eyes? Prometheus. I weigh not what ye do, but what ye suffer, Being evil. Cruel was the power which called You, or aught else so wretched, into light. Third Fury. Thou think'st we will live through thee, one by one, Like animal life, and though we can obscure not The soul which burns within, that we will dwell Beside it, like a vain loud multitude Vexing the self-content of wisest men: That we will be dread thought beneath thy brain, And foul desire round thine astonished heart, And blood within thy labyrinthine veins Crawling like agony? Prometheus.            Why, ye are thus now; Yet am I king over myself, and rule The torturing and conflicting throngs within, As Jove rules you when Hell grows mutinous. Chorus of Furies. From the ends of the earth, from the ends of the earth, Where the night has its grave and the morning its birth,      Come, come, come! Oh, ye who shake hills with the scream of your mirth, When cities sink howling in ruin; and ye Who with wingless footsteps trample the sea, And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's track, Sit chattering with joy on the foodless wreck;      Come, come, come! Leave the bed, low, cold, and red, Strewed beneath a nation dead; Leave the hatred, as in ashes   Fire is left for future burning: It will burst in bloodier flashes   When ye stir it, soon returning: Leave the self-contempt implanted In young spirits, sense-enchanted,   Misery's yet unkindled fuel:   Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted    To the maniac dreamer; cruel   More than ye can be with hate     Is he with fear.      Come, come, come! We are steaming up from Hell's wide gate And we burthen the blast of the atmosphere, But vainly we toil till ye come here. Ione. Sister, I hear the thunder of new wings. Panthea. These solid mountains quiver with the sound Even as the tremulous air: their shadows make The space within my plumes more black than night. First Fury. Your call was as a wingd car Driven on whirlwinds fast and far; It rapped us from red gulfs of war. Second Fury. From wide cities, famine-wasted; Third Fury. Groans half heard, and blood untasted; Fourth Fury. Kingly conclaves stern and cold, Where blood with gold is bought and sold; Fifth Fury. From the furnace, white and hot, In which A Fury.      Speak not: whisper not: I know all that ye would tell, But to speak might break the spell Which must bend the Invincible, The stern of thought; He yet defies the deepest power of Hell. A Fury. Tear the veil! Another Fury.        It is torn.        Chorus.               The pale stars of the morn Shine on a misery, dire to be borne. Dost thou faint, mighty Titan? We laugh thee to scorn. Dost thou boast the clear knowledge thou waken'dst for man? Then was kindled within him a thirst which outran Those perishing waters; a thirst of fierce fever, Hope, love, doubt, desire, which consume him for ever.   One came forth of gentle worth   Smiling on the sanguine earth;   His words outlived him, like swift poison    Withering up truth, peace, and pity.   Look! where round the wide horizon    Many a million-peopled city   Vomits smoke in the bright air.   Hark that outcry of despair!   'Tis his mild and gentle ghost    Wailing for the faith he kindled:   Look again, the flames almost    To a glow-worm's lamp have dwindled: The survivors round the embers Gather in dread.     Joy, joy, joy! Past ages crowd on thee, but each one remembers, And the future is dark, and the present is spread Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberless head. Semichorus I. Drops of bloody agony flow From his white and quivering brow. Grant a little respite now: See a disenchanted nation Springs like day from desolation; To Truth its state is dedicate, And Freedom leads it forth, her mate; A legioned band of linkd brothers Whom Love calls children Semichorus II.               'Tis another's: See how kindred murder kin: 'Tis the vintage-time for death and sin: Blood, like new wine, bubbles within:   Till Despair smothers The struggling world, which slaves and tyrants win. [All the Furies vanish, except one. Ione. Hark, sister! what a low yet dreadful groan Quite unsuppressed is tearing up the heart Of the good Titan, as storms tear the deep, And beasts hear the sea moan in inland caves. Darest thou observe how the fiends torture him? Panthea. Alas! I looked forth twice, but will no more. Ione. What didst thou see? Panthea.            A woful sight: a youth With patient looks nailed to a crucifix. Ione. What next? Panthea.      The heaven around, the earth below Was peopled with thick shapes of human death, All horrible, and wrought by human hands, And some appeared the work of human hearts, For men were slowly killed by frowns and smiles: And other sights too foul to speak and live Were wandering by. Let us not tempt worse fear By looking forth: those groans are grief enough. Fury. Behold an emblem: those who do endure Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and chains, but heap Thousandfold torment on themselves and him. Prometheus. Remit the anguish of that lighted stare; Close those wan lips; let that thorn-wounded brow Stream not with blood; it mingles with thy tears! Fix, fix those tortured orbs in peace and death, So thy sick throes shake not that crucifix, So those pale fingers play not with thy gore. O, horrible! Thy name I will not speak, It hath become a curse. I see, I see, The wise, the mild, the lofty, and the just, Whom thy slaves hate for being like to thee, Some hunted by foul lies from their heart's home, An early-chosen, late-lamented home; As hooded ounces cling to the driven hind; Some linked to corpses in unwholesome cells: SomeHear I not the multitude laugh loud? Impaled in lingering fire: and mighty realms Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted isles, Whose sons are kneaded down in common blood By the red light of their own burning homes. Fury. Blood thou canst see, and fire; and canst hear groans; Worse things, unheard, unseen, remain behind. Prometheus. Worse? Fury.    In each human heart terror survives The ravin it has gorged: the loftiest fear All that they would disdain to think were true: Hypocrisy and custom make their minds The fanes of many a worship, now outworn. They dare not devise good for man's estate, And yet they know not that they do not dare. The good want power, but to weep barren tears. The powerful goodness want: worse need for them. The wise want love; and those who love want wisdom; And all best things are thus confused to ill. Many are strong and rich, and would be just, But live among their suffering fellow-men As if none felt: they know not what they do. Prometheus. Thy words are like a cloud of wingd snakes; And yet I pity those they torture not. Fury. Thou pitiest them? I speak no more! [Vanishes. Prometheus.                    Ah woe! Ah woe! Alas! pain, pain ever, for ever! I close my tearless eyes, but see more clear Thy works within my woe-illumd mind, Thou subtle tyrant! Peace is in the grave. The grave hides all things beautiful and good: I am a God and cannot find it there, Nor would I seek it: for, though dread revenge, This is defeat, fierce king, not victory. The sights with which thou torturest gird my soul With new endurance, till the hour arrives When they shall be no types of things which are. Panthea. Alas! what sawest thou more? Prometheus.                There are two woes: To speak, and to behold; thou spare me one. Names are there, Nature's sacred watchwords, they Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry; The nations thronged around, and cried aloud, As with one voice, Truth, liberty, and love! Suddenly fierce confusion fell from heaven Among them: there was strife, deceit, and fear: Tyrants rushed in, and did divide the spoil. This was the shadow of the truth I saw. The Earth. I felt thy torture, son; with such mixed joy As pain and virtue give. To cheer thy state I bid ascend those subtle and fair spirits, Whose homes are the dim caves of human thought, And who inhabit, as birds wing the wind, Its world-surrounding aether: they behold Beyond that twilight realm, as in a glass, The future: may they speak comfort to thee! Panthea. Look, sister, where a troop of spirits gather, Like flocks of clouds in spring's delightful weather, Thronging in the blue air! Ione.               And see! more come, Like fountain-vapours when the winds are dumb, That climb up the ravine in scattered lines. And, hark! is it the music of the pines? Is it the lake? Is it the waterfall? Panthea. 'Tis something sadder, sweeter far than all. Chorus of Spirits. From unremembered ages we Gentle guides and guardians be Of heaven-oppressed mortality; And we breathe, and sicken not, The atmosphere of human thought: Be it dim, and dank, and gray, Like a storm-extinguished day, Travelled o'er by dying gleams; Be it bright as all between Cloudless skies and windless streams, Silent, liquid, and serene; As the birds within the wind, As the fish within the wave, As the thoughts of man's own mind Float through all above the grave; We make there our liquid lair, Voyaging cloudlike and unpent Through the boundless element: Thence we bear the prophecy Which begins and ends in thee! Ione. More yet come, one by one: the air around them Looks radiant as the air around a star. First Spirit. On a battle-trumpet's blast I fled hither, fast, fast, fast, 'Mid the darkness upward cast. From the dust of creeds outworn, From the tyrant's banner torn, Gathering 'round me, onward borne, There was mingled many a cry Freedom! Hope! Death! Victory! Till they faded through the sky; And one sound, above, around, One sound beneath, around, above, Was moving; 'twas the soul of Love; 'Twas the hope, the prophecy, Which begins and ends in thee. Second Spirit. A rainbow's arch stood on the sea, Which rocked beneath, immovably; And the triumphant storm did flee, Like a conqueror, swift and proud, Between, with many a captive cloud, A shapeless, dark and rapid crowd, Each by lightning riven in half: I heard the thunder hoarsely laugh: Mighty fleets were strewn like chaff And spread beneath a hell of death O'er the white waters. I alit On a great ship lightning-split, And speeded hither on the sigh Of one who gave an enemy His plank, then plunged aside to die. Third Spirit. I sate beside a sage's bed, And the lamp was burning red Near the book where he had fed, When a Dream with plumes of flame, To his pillow hovering came, And I knew it was the same Which had kindled long ago Pity, eloquence, and woe; And the world awhile below Wore the shade, its lustre made. It has borne me here as fleet As Desire's lightning feet: I must ride it back ere morrow, Or the sage will wake in sorrow. Fourth Spirit. On a poet's lips I slept Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept; Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the areal kisses Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, Nor heed nor see, what things they be; But from these create he can Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of immortality! One of these awakened me, And I sped to succour thee. Ione. Behold'st thou not two shapes from the east and west Come, as two doves to one belovd nest, Twin nurslings of the all-sustaining air On swift still wings glide down the atmosphere? And, hark! their sweet, sad voices! 'tis despair Mingled with love and then dissolved in sound. Panthea. Canst thou speak, sister? all my words are drowned. Ione. Their beauty gives me voice. See how they float On their sustaining wings of skiey grain, Orange and azure deepening into gold: Their soft smiles light the air like a star's fire. Chorus of Spirits. Hast thou beheld the form of Love? Fifth Spirit.                   As over wide dominions I sped, like some swift cloud that wings the wide air's wildernesses, That planet-crested shape swept by on lightning-braided pinions, Scattering the liquid joy of life from his ambrosial tresses: His footsteps paved the world with light; but as I passed 'twas fading, And hollow Ruin yawned behind: great sages bound in madness, And headless patriots, and pale youths who perished, unupbraiding, Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, till thou, O King of sadness, Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to recollected gladness. Sixth Spirit. Ah, sister! Desolation is a delicate thing: It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air, But treads with lulling footstep, and fans with silent wing The tender hopes which in their hearts the best and gentlest bear; Who, soothed to false repose by the fanning plumes above And the music-stirring motion of its soft and busy feet, Dream visions of areal joy, and call the monster, Love, And wake, and find the shadow Pain, as he whom now we greet. Chorus. Though Ruin now Love's shadow be, Following him, destroyingly, On Death's white and wingd steed, Which the fleetest cannot flee, Trampling down both flower and weed, Man and beast, and foul and fair, Like a tempest through the air; Thou shalt quell this horseman grim, Woundless though in heart or limb. Prometheus. Spirits! how know ye this shall be? Chorus. In the atmosphere we breathe, As buds grow red when the snow-storms flee, From Spring gathering up beneath, Whose mild winds shake the elder brake, And the wandering herdsmen know That the white-thorn soon will blow: Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace, When they struggle to increase,   Are to us as soft winds be   To shepherd boys, the prophecy   Which begins and ends in thee.   Ione. Where are the Spirits fled? Panthea.                Only a sense Remains of them, like the omnipotence Of music, when the inspired voice and lute Languish, ere yet the responses are mute, Which through the deep and labyrinthine soul, Like echoes through long caverns, wind and roll. Prometheus. How fair these airborn shapes! and yet I feel Most vain all hope but love; and thou art far, Asia! who, when my being overflowed, Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust. All things are still: alas! how heavily This quiet morning weighs upon my heart; Though I should dream I could even sleep with grief If slumber were denied not. I would fain Be what it is my destiny to be, The saviour and the strength of suffering man, Or sink into the original gulf of things: There is no agony, and no solace left; Earth can console, Heaven can torment no more. Panthea. Hast thou forgotten one who watches thee The cold dark night, and never sleeps but when The shadow of thy spirit falls on her? Prometheus. I said all hope was vain but love: thou lovest. Panthea. Deeply in truth; but the eastern star looks white, And Asia waits in that far Indian vale, The scene of her sad exile; rugged once And desolate and frozen, like this ravine; But now invested with fair flowers and herbs, And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, which flow Among the woods and waters, from the aether Of her transforming presence, which would fade If it were mingled not with thine. Farewell! END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II Scene I. Morning. A lovely Vale in the Indian Caucasus. Asia alone. Asia. From all the blasts of heaven thou hast descended: Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which makes Unwonted tears throng to the horny eyes, And beatings haunt the desolated heart, Which should have learnt repose: thou hast descended Cradled in tempests; thou dost wake, O Spring! O child of many winds! As suddenly Thou comest as the memory of a dream, Which now is sad because it hath been sweet; Like genius, or like joy which riseth up As from the earth, clothing with golden clouds The desert of our life. This is the season, this the day, the hour; At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine, Too long desired, too long delaying, come! How like death-worms the wingless moments crawl! The point of one white star is quivering still Deep in the orange light of widening morn Beyond the purple mountains. through a chasm Of wind-divided mist the darker lake Reflects it: now it wanes: it gleams again As the waves fade, and as the burning threads Of woven cloud unravel in pale air: 'Tis lost! and through yon peaks of cloud-like snow The roseate sunlight quivers: hear I not The olian music of her sea-green plumes Winnowing the crimson dawn? [Panthea enters.                I feel, I see Those eyes which burn through smiles that fade in tears, Like stars half quenched in mists of silver dew. Belovd and most beautiful, who wearest The shadow of that soul by which I live, How late thou art! the spherd sun had climbed The sea; my heart was sick with hope, before The printless air felt thy belated plumes. Panthea. Pardon, great Sister! but my wings were faint With the delight of a remembered dream, As are the noontide plumes of summer winds Satiate with sweet flowers. I was wont to sleep Peacefully, and awake refreshed and calm Before the sacred Titan's fall, and thy Unhappy love, had made, through use and pity, Both love and woe familiar to my heart As they had grown to thine: erewhile I slept Under the glaucous caverns of old Ocean Within dim bowers of green and purple moss, Our young Ione's soft and milky arms Locked then, as now, behind my dark, moist hair, While my shut eyes and cheek were pressed within The folded depth of her life-breathing bosom: But not as now, since I am made the wind Which fails beneath the music that I bear Of thy most wordless converse; since dissolved Into the sense with which love talks, my rest Was troubled and yet sweet; my waking hours Too full of care and pain. Asia.               Lift up thine eyes, And let me read thy dream. Panthea.               As I have said With our sea-sister at his feet I slept. The mountain mists, condensing at our voice Under the moon, had spread their snowy flakes, From the keen ice shielding our linkd sleep. Then two dreams came. One, I remember not. But in the other his pale wound-worn limbs Fell from Prometheus, and the azure night Grew radiant with the glory of that form Which lives unchanged within, and his voice fell Like music which makes giddy the dim brain, Faint with intoxication of keen joy: 'Sister of her whose footsteps pave the world With lovelinessmore fair than aught but her, Whose shadow thou artlift thine eyes on me.' I lifted them: the overpowering light Of that immortal shape was shadowed o'er By love; which, from his soft and flowing limbs, And passion-parted lips, and keen, faint eyes, Steamed forth like vaporous fire; an atmosphere Which wrapped me in its all-dissolving power, As the warm aether of the morning sun Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wandering dew. I saw not, heard not, moved not, only felt His presence flow and mingle through my blood Till it became his life, and his grew mine, And I was thus absorbed, until it passed, And like the vapours when the sun sinks down, Gathering again in drops upon the pines, And tremulous as they, in the deep night My being was condensed; and as the rays Of thought were slowly gathered, I could hear His voice, whose accents lingered ere they died Like footsteps of weak melody: thy name Among the many sounds alone I heard Of what might be articulate; though still I listened through the night when sound was none. Ione wakened then, and said to me: 'Canst thou divine what troubles me to-night? I always knew what I desired before, Nor ever found delight to wish in vain. But now I cannot tell thee what I seek; I know not; something sweet, since it is sweet Even to desire; it is thy sport, false sister; Thou hast discovered some enchantment old, Whose spells have stolen my spirit as I slept And mingled it with thine: for when just now We kissed, I felt within thy parted lips The sweet air that sustained me, and the warmth Of the life-blood, for loss of which I faint, Quivered between our intertwining arms.' I answered not, for the Eastern star grew pale, But fled to thee. Asia.          Thou speakest, but thy words Are as the air: I feel them not: Oh, lift Thine eyes, that I may read his written soul! Panthea. I lift them though they droop beneath the load Of that they would express: what canst thou see But thine own fairest shadow imaged there? Asia. Thine eyes are like the deep, blue, boundless heaven Contracted to two circles underneath Their long, fine lashes; dark, far, measureless, Orb within orb, and line through line inwoven. Panthea. Why lookest thou as if a spirit passed? Asia. There is a change: beyond their inmost depth I see a shade, a shape: 'tis He, arrayed In the soft light of his own smiles, which spread Like radiance from the cloud-surrounded moon. Prometheus, it is thine! depart not yet! Say not those smiles that we shall meet again Within that bright pavilion which their beams Shall build o'er the waste world? The dream is told. What shape is that between us? Its rude hair Roughens the wind that lifts it, its regard Is wild and quick, yet 'tis a thing of air, For through its gray robe gleams the golden dew Whose stars the noon has quenched not. Dream.                      Follow! Follow!                      Panthea. It is mine other dream. Asia.             It disappears.             Panthea. It passes now into my mind. Methought As we sate here, the flower-infolding buds Burst on yon lightning-blasted almond-tree, When swift from the white Scythian wilderness A wind swept forth wrinkling the Earth with frost: I looked, and all the blossoms were blown down; But on each leaf was stamped, as the blue bells Of Hyacinth tell Apollo's written grief, O, follow, follow! Asia.           As you speak, your words Fill, pause by pause, my own forgotten sleep With shapes. Methought among these lawns together We wandered, underneath the young gray dawn, And multitudes of dense white fleecy clouds Were wandering in thick flocks along the mountains Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind; And the white dew on the new-bladed grass, Just piercing the dark earth, hung silently; And there was more which I remember not: But on the shadows of the morning clouds, Athwart the purple mountain slope, was written Follow, O, follow! as they vanished by; And on each herb, from which Heaven's dew had fallen, The like was stamped, as with a withering fire; A wind arose among the pines; it shook The clinging music from their boughs, and then Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the farewell of ghosts, Were heard: O, follow, follow, follow me! And then I said: 'Panthea, look on me.' But in the depth of those belovd eyes Still I saw, follow, follow! Echo.                Follow, follow!                Panthea. The crags, this clear spring morning, mock our voices As they were spirit-tongued. Asia.                It is some being Around the crags. What fine clear sounds! O, list! Echoes (unseen). Echoes we: listen! We cannot stay: As dew-stars glisten Then fade away   Child of Ocean!   Asia. Hark! Spirits speak. The liquid responses Of their areal tongues yet sound. Panthea.                   I hear.                   Echoes. O, follow, follow, As our voice recedeth Through the caverns hollow, Where the forest spreadeth; (More distant.) O, follow, follow! Through the caverns hollow, As the song floats thou pursue, Where the wild bee never flew, Through the noontide darkness deep, By the odour-breathing sleep Of faint night flowers, and the waves At the fountain-lighted caves, While our music, wild and sweet, Mocks thy gently falling feet,   Child of Ocean!   Asia. Shall we pursue the sound? It grows more faint And distant. Panthea. List! the strain floats nearer now. Echoes. In the world unknown Sleeps a voice unspoken; By thy step alone Can its rest be broken;   Child of Ocean!   Asia. How the notes sink upon the ebbing wind! Echoes. O, follow, follow! Through the caverns hollow, As the song floats thou pursue, By the woodland noontide dew; By the forest, lakes, and fountains, Through the many-folded mountains; To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms, Where the Earth reposed from spasms, On the day when He and thou Parted, to commingle now;   Child of Ocean!   Asia. Come, sweet Panthea, link thy hand in mine, And follow, ere the voices fade away. Scene II. A Forest, intermingled with Rocks and Caverns. Asia and Panthea pass into it. Two young Fauns are sitting on a Rock listening. Semichorus I. of Spirits. The path through which that lovely twain Have passed, by cedar, pine, and yew, And each dark tree that ever grew, Is curtained out from Heaven's wide blue; Nor sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain,   Can pierce its interwoven bowers, Nor aught, save where some cloud of dew, Drifted along the earth-creeping breeze, Between the trunks of the hoar trees,   Hangs each a pearl in the pale flowers Of the green laurel, blown anew; And bends, and then fades silently, One frail and fair anemone: Or when some star of many a one That climbs and wanders through steep night, Has found the cleft through which alone Beams fall from high those depths upon Ere it is borne away, away, By the swift Heavens that cannot stay, It scatters drops of golden light, Like lines of rain that ne'er unite: And the gloom divine is all around, And underneath is the mossy ground. Semichorus II. There the voluptuous nightingales, Are awake through all the broad noonday. When one with bliss or sadness fails,   And through the windless ivy-boughs, Sick with sweet love, droops dying away On its mate's music-panting bosom; Another from the swinging blossom,   Watching to catch the languid close Of the last strain, then lifts on high The wings of the weak melody, 'Till some new strain of feeling bear The song, and all the woods are mute; When there is heard through the dim air The rush of wings, and rising there Like many a lake-surrounded flute, Sounds overflow the listener's brain So sweet, that joy is almost pain. Semichorus I. There those enchanted eddies play Of echoes, music-tongued, which draw, By Demogorgon's mighty law, With melting rapture, or sweet awe, All spirits on that secret way; As inland boats are driven to Ocean Down streams made strong with mountain-thaw:   And first there comes a gentle sound   To those in talk or slumber bound, And wakes the destined soft emotion, Attracts, impels them; those who saw Say from the breathing earth behind There steams a plume-uplifting wind Which drives them on their path, while they Believe their own swift wings and feet The sweet desires within obey: And so they float upon their way, Until, still sweet, but loud and strong, The storm of sound is driven along, Sucked up and hurrying: as they fleet Behind, its gathering billows meet And to the fatal mountain bear Like clouds amid the yielding air. First Faun. Canst thou imagine where those spirits live Which make such delicate music in the woods? We haunt within the least frequented caves And closest coverts, and we know these wilds, Yet never meet them, though we hear them oft: Where may they hide themselves? Second Faun.                  'Tis hard to tell: I have heard those more skilled in spirits say, The bubbles, which the enchantment of the sun Sucks from the pale faint water-flowers that pave The oozy bottom of clear lakes and pools, Are the pavilions where such dwell and float Under the green and golden atmosphere Which noontide kindles through the woven leaves; And when these burst, and the thin fiery air, The which they breathed within those lucent domes, Ascends to flow like meteors through the night, They ride on them, and rein their headlong speed, And bow their burning crests, and glide in fire Under the waters of the earth again. First Faun. If such live thus, have others other lives, Under pink blossoms or within the bells Of meadow flowers, or folded violets deep, Or on their dying odours, when they die, Or in the sunlight of the spherd dew? Second Faun. Ay, many more which we may well divine. But, should we stay to speak, noontide would come, And thwart Silenus find his goats undrawn, And grudge to sing those wise and lovely songs Of Fate, and Chance, and God, and Chaos old, And Love, and the chained Titan's woful doom, And how he shall be loosed, and make the earth One brotherhood: delightful strains which cheer Our solitary twilights, and which charm To silence the unenvying nightingales. Scene III. A Pinnacle of Rock among Mountains. Asia and Panthea. Panthea. Hither the sound has borne usto the realm Of Demogorgon, and the mighty portal, Like a volcano's meteor-breathing chasm, Whence the oracular vapour is hurled up Which lonely men drink wandering in their youth, And call truth, virtue, love, genius, or joy, That maddening wine of life, whose dregs they drain To deep intoxication; and uplift, Like Mnads who cry loud, Evoe! Evoe! The voice which is contagion to the world. Asia. Fit throne for such a Power! Magnificent! How glorious art thou, Earth! And if thou be The shadow of some spirit lovelier still, Though evil stain its work, and it should be Like its creation, weak yet beautiful, I could fall down and worship that and thee. Even now my heart adoreth: Wonderful! Look, sister, ere the vapour dim thy brain: Beneath is a wide plain of billowy mist, As a lake, paving in the morning sky, With azure waves which burst in silver light, Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on Under the curdling winds, and islanding The peak whereon we stand, midway, around, Encinctured by the dark and blooming forests, Dim twilight-lawns, and stream-illumd caves, And wind-enchanted shapes of wandering mist; And far on high the keen sky-cleaving mountains From icy spires of sun-like radiance fling The dawn, as lifted Ocean's dazzling spray, From some Atlantic islet scattered up, Spangles the wind with lamp-like water-drops. The vale is girdled with their walls, a howl Of cataracts from their thaw-cloven ravines, Satiates the listening wind, continuous, vast, Awful as silence. Hark! the rushing snow! The sun-awakened avalanche! whose mass, Thrice sifted by the storm, had gathered there Flake after flake, in heaven-defying minds As thought by thought is piled, till some great truth Is loosened, and the nations echo round, Shaken to their roots, as do the mountains now. Panthea. Look how the gusty sea of mist is breaking In crimson foam, even at our feet! it rises As Ocean at the enchantment of the moon Round foodless men wrecked on some oozy isle. Asia. The fragments of the cloud are scattered up; The wind that lifts them disentwines my hair; Its billows now sweep o'er mine eyes; my brain Grows dizzy; see'st thou shapes within the mist? Panthea. A countenance with beckoning smiles: there burns An azure fire within its golden locks! Another and another: hark! they speak! Song of Spirits. To the deep, to the deep,   Down, down! Through the shade of sleep, Through the cloudy strife Of Death and of Life; Through the veil and the bar Of things which seem and are Even to the steps of the remotest throne,   Down, down!    While the sound whirls around,   Down, down! As the fawn draws the hound, As the lightning the vapour, As a weak moth the taper; Death, despair; love, sorrow; Time both; to-day, to-morrow; As steel obeys the spirit of the stone,   Down, down!    Through the gray, void abysm,   Down, down! Where the air is no prism, And the moon and stars are not, And the cavern-crags wear not The radiance of Heaven, Nor the gloom to Earth given, Where there is One pervading, One alone,   Down, down!    In the depth of the deep,   Down, down! Like veiled lightning asleep, Like the spark nursed in embers, The last look Love remembers, Like a diamond, which shines On the dark wealth of mines, A spell is treasured but for thee alone.   Down, down!    We have bound thee, we guide thee;   Down, down! With the bright form beside thee; Resist not the weakness, Such strength is in meekness That the Eternal, the Immortal, Most unloose through life's portal The snake-like Doom coiled underneath his throne   By that alone.   Scene IV. The Cave of Demogorgon. Asia and Panthea. Panthea. What viled form sits on that ebon throne? Asia. The veil has fallen. Panthea.            I see a mighty darkness Filling the seat of power, and rays of gloom Dart round, as light from the meridian sun. Ungazed upon and shapeless; neither limb, Nor form, nor outline; yet we feel it is A living Spirit. Demogorgon.          Ask what thou wouldst know.          Asia. What canst thou tell? Demogorgon.            All things thou dar'st demand.            Asia. Who made the living world? Demogorgon.               God.               Asia.                 Who made all That it contains? thought, passion, reason, will, Imagination? Demogorgon. God: Almighty God. Asia. Who made that sense which, when the winds of Spring In rarest visitation, or the voice Of one belovd heard in youth alone, Fills the faint eyes with falling tears which dim The radiant looks of unbewailing flowers, And leaves this peopled earth a solitude When it returns no more? Demogorgon.              Merciful God.              Asia. And who made terror, madness, crime, remorse, Which from the links of the great chain of things, To every thought within the mind of man Sway and drag heavily, and each one reels Under the load towards the pit of death; Abandoned hope, and love that turns to hate; And self-contempt, bitterer to drink than blood; Pain, whose unheeded and familiar speech Is howling, and keen shrieks, day after day; And Hell, or the sharp fear of Hell? Demogorgon.                     He reigns.                     Asia. Utter his name: a world pining in pain Asks but his name: curses shall drag him down. Demogorgon. He reigns. Asia.      I feel, I know it: who?      Demogorgon.                   He reigns.                   Asia. Who reigns? There was the Heaven and Earth at first, And Light and Love; then Saturn, from whose throne Time fell, an envious shadow: such the state Of the earth's primal spirits beneath his sway, As the calm joy of flowers and living leaves Before the wind or sun has withered them And semivital worms; but he refused The birthright of their being, knowledge, power, The skill which wields the elements, the thought Which pierces this dim universe like light, Self-empire, and the majesty of love; For thirst of which they fainted. Then Prometheus Gave wisdom, which is strength, to Jupiter, And with this law alone, 'Let man be free,' Clothed him with the dominion of wide Heaven. To know nor faith, nor love, nor law; to be Omnipotent but friendless is to reign; And Jove now reigned; for on the race of man First famine, and then toil, and then disease, Strife, wounds, and ghastly death unseen before, Fell; and the unseasonable seasons drove With alternating shafts of frost and fire, Their shelterless, pale tribes to mountain caves: And in their desert hearts fierce wants he sent, And mad disquietudes, and shadows idle Of unreal good, which levied mutual war, So ruining the lair wherein they raged. Prometheus saw, and waked the legioned hopes Which sleep within folded Elysian flowers, Nepenthe, Moly, Amaranth, fadeless blooms, That they might hide with thin and rainbow wings The shape of Death; and Love he sent to bind The disunited tendrils of that vine Which bears the wine of life, the human heart; And he tamed fire which, like some beast of prey, Most terrible, but lovely, played beneath The frown of man; and tortured to his will Iron and gold, the slaves and signs of power, And gems and poisons, and all subtlest forms Hidden beneath the mountains and the waves. He gave man speech, and speech created thought, Which is the measure of the universe; And Science struck the thrones of earth and heaven, Which shook, but fell not; and the harmonious mind Poured itself forth in all-prophetic song; And music lifted up the listening spirit Until it walked, exempt from mortal care, Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet sound; And human hands first mimicked and then mocked, With moulded limbs more lovely than its own, The human form, till marble grew divine; And mothers, gazing, drank the love men see Reflected in their race, behold, and perish. He told the hidden power of herbs and springs, And Disease drank and slept. Death grew like sleep. He taught the implicated orbits woven Of the wide-wandering stars; and how the sun Changes his lair, and by what secret spell The pale moon is transformed, when her broad eye Gazes not on the interlunar sea: He taught to rule, as life directs the limbs, The tempest-wingd chariots of the Ocean, And the Celt knew the Indian. Cities then Were built, and through their snow-like columns flowed The warm winds, and the azure aether shone, And the blue sea and shadowy hills were seen. Such, the alleviations of his state, Prometheus gave to man, for which he hangs Withering in destined pain: but who rains down Evil, the immedicable plague, which, while Man looks on his creation like a God And sees that it is glorious, drives him on, The wreck of his own will, the scorn of earth, The outcast, the abandoned, the alone? Not Jove: while yet his frown shook Heaven, ay, when His adversary from adamantine chains Cursed him, he trembled like a slave. Declare Who is his master? Is he too a slave? Demogorgon. All spirits are enslaved which serve things evil: Thou knowest if Jupiter be such or no. Asia. Whom calledst thou God? Demogorgon.             I spoke but as ye speak, For Jove is the supreme of living things. Asia. Who is the master of the slave? Demogorgon.                  If the abysm Could vomit forth its secrets. . . But a voice Is wanting, the deep truth is imageless; For what would it avail to bid thee gaze On the revolving world? What to bid speak Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance, and Change? To these All things are subject but eternal Love. Asia. So much I asked before, and my heart gave The response thou hast given; and of such truths Each to itself must be the oracle. One more demand; and do thou answer me As mine own soul would answer, did it know That which I ask. Prometheus shall arise Henceforth the sun of this rejoicing world: When shall the destined hour arrive? Demogorgon.                     Behold!                     Asia. The rocks are cloven, and through the purple night I see cars drawn by rainbow-wingd steeds Which trample the dim winds: in each there stands A wild-eyed charioteer urging their flight. Some look behind, as fiends pursued them there, And yet I see no shapes but the keen stars: Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, and drink With eager lips the wind of their own speed, As if the thing they loved fled on before, And now, even now, they clasped it. Their bright locks Stream like a comet's flashing hair: they all Sweep onward. Demogorgon.        These are the immortal Hours, Of whom thou didst demand. One waits for thee. Asia. A spirit with a dreadful countenance Checks its dark chariot by the craggy gulf. Unlike thy brethren, ghastly charioteer, Who art thou? Whither wouldst thou bear me? Speak! Spirit. I am the shadow of a destiny More dread than is my aspect: ere yon planet Has set, the darkness which ascends with me Shall wrap in lasting night heaven's kingless throne. Asia. What meanest thou? Panthea.           That terrible shadow floats Up from its throne, as may the lurid smoke Of earthquake-ruined cities o'er the sea. Lo! it ascends the car; the coursers fly Terrified: watch its path among the stars Blackening the night! Asia.            Thus I am answered: strange!            Panthea. See, near the verge, another chariot stays; An ivory shell inlaid with crimson fire, Which comes and goes within its sculptured rim Of delicate strange tracery; the young spirit That guides it has the dove-like eyes of hope; How its soft smiles attract the soul! as light Lures wingd insects through the lampless air. Spirit. My coursers are fed with the lightning, They drink of the whirlwind's stream, And when the red morning is bright'ning They bathe in the fresh sunbeam; They have strength for their swiftness I deem, Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. I desire: and their speed makes night kindle; I fear: they outstrip the Typhoon; Ere the cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle We encircle the earth and the moon: We shall rest from long labours at noon: Then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean. Scene V. The Car pauses within a Cloud on the top of a snowy Mountain. Asia, Panthea, and the Spirit of the Hour. Spirit. On the brink of the night and the morning My coursers are wont to respire; But the Earth has just whispered a warning That their flight must be swifter than fire: They shall drink the hot speed of desire! Asia. Thou breathest on their nostrils, but my breath Would give them swifter speed. Spirit.                 Alas! it could not.                 Panthea. Oh Spirit! pause, and tell whence is the light Which fills this cloud? the sun is yet unrisen. Spirit. The sun will rise not until noon. Apollo Is held in heaven by wonder; and the light Which fills this vapour, as the areal hue Of fountain-gazing roses fills the water, Flows from thy mighty sister. Panthea.                 Yes, I feel                 Asia. What is it with thee, sister? Thou art pale. Panthea. How thou art changed! I dare not look on thee; I feel but see thee not. I scarce endure The radiance of thy beauty. Some good change Is working in the elements, which suffer Thy presence thus unveiled. The Nereids tell That on the day when the clear hyaline Was cloven at thine uprise, and thou didst stand Within a veind shell, which floated on Over the calm floor of the crystal sea, Among the gean isles, and by the shores Which bear thy name; love, like the atmosphere Of the sun's fire filling the living world, Burst from thee, and illumined earth and heaven And the deep ocean and the sunless caves And all that dwells within them; till grief cast Eclipse upon the soul from which it came: Such art thou now; nor is it I alone, Thy sister, thy companion, thine own chosen one, But the whole world which seeks thy sympathy. Hearest thou not sounds i' the air which speak the love Of all articulate beings? Feelest thou not The inanimate winds enamoured of thee? List! [Music. Asia. Thy words are sweeter than aught else but his Whose echoes they are: yet all love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever. Like the wide heaven, the all-sustaining air, It makes the reptile equal to the God: They who inspire it most are fortunate, As I am now; but those who feel it most Are happier still, after long sufferings, As I shall soon become. Panthea.             List! Spirits speak.             Voice in the Air, singing. Life of Life! thy lips enkindle With their love the breath between them; And thy smiles before they dwindle Make the cold air fire; then screen them In those looks, where whoso gazes Faints, entangled in their mazes. Child of Light! thy limbs are burning Through the vest which seems to hide them; As the radiant lines of morning Through the clouds ere they divide them; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. Fair are others; none beholds thee, But thy voice sounds low and tender Like the fairest, for it folds thee From the sight, that liquid splendour, And all feel, yet see thee never, As I feel now, lost for ever! Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness, Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing! Asia. My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside a helm conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. It seems to float ever, for ever, Upon that many-winding river, Between mountains, woods, abysses, A paradise of wildernesses! Till, like one in slumber bound, Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound: Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions In music's most serene dominions; Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. And we sail on, away, afar, Without a course, without a star, But, by the instinct of sweet music driven; Till through Elysian garden islets By thee, most beautiful of pilots, Where never mortal pinnace glided, The boat of my desire is guided: Realms where the air we breathe is love, Which in the winds and on the waves doth move, Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above. We have passed Age's icy caves, And Manhood's dark and tossing waves, And Youth's smooth ocean, smiling to betray: Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee Of shadow-peopled Infancy, Through Death and Birth, to a diviner day; A paradise of vaulted bowers, Lit by downward-gazing flowers, And watery paths that wind between Wildernesses calm and green, Peopled by shapes too bright to see, And rest, having beheld; somewhat like thee; Which walk upon the sea, and chant melodiously! END OF THE SECOND ACT. ACT III Scene I. Heaven. Jupiter on his Throne; Thetis and the other Deities assembled. Jupiter. Ye congregated powers of heaven, who share The glory and the strength of him ye serve, Rejoice! henceforth I am omnipotent. All else had been subdued to me; alone The soul of man, like unextinguished fire, Yet burns towards heaven with fierce reproach, and doubt, And lamentation, and reluctant prayer, Hurling up insurrection, which might make Our antique empire insecure, though built On eldest faith, and hell's coeval, fear; And though my curses through the pendulous air, Like snow on herbless peaks, fall flake by flake, And cling to it; though under my wrath's night It climbs the crags of life, step after step, Which wound it, as ice wounds unsandalled feet, It yet remains supreme o'er misery, Aspiring, unrepressed, yet soon to fall: Even now have I begotten a strange wonder, That fatal child, the terror of the earth, Who waits but till the destined hour arrive, Bearing from Demogorgon's vacant throne The dreadful might of ever-living limbs Which clothed that awful spirit unbeheld, To redescend, and trample out the spark. Pour forth heaven's wine, Idan Ganymede, And let it fill the Ddal cups like fire, And from the flower-inwoven soil divine Ye all-triumphant harmonies arise, As dew from earth under the twilight stars: Drink! be the nectar circling through your veins The soul of joy, ye ever-living Gods, Till exultation burst in one wide voice Like music from Elysian winds.                 And thou Ascend beside me, veild in the light Of the desire which makes thee one with me, Thetis, bright image of eternity! When thou didst cry, 'Insufferable might! God! Spare me! I sustain not the quick flames, The penetrating presence; all my being, Like him whom the Numidian seps did thaw Into a dew with poison, is dissolved, Sinking through its foundations:' even then Two mighty spirits, mingling, made a third Mightier than either, which, unbodied now, Between us floats, felt, although unbeheld, Waiting the incarnation, which ascends, (Hear ye the thunder of the fiery wheels Griding the winds?) from Demogorgon's throne. Victory! victory! Feel'st thou not, O world, The earthquake of his chariot thundering up Olympus? [The Car of the Hour arrives. Demogorgon descends, and moves towards the Throne of Jupiter.     Awful shape, what art thou? Speak!     Demogorgon. Eternity. Demand no direr name. Descend, and follow me down the abyss. I am thy child, as thou wert Saturn's child; Mightier than thee: and we must dwell together Henceforth in darkness. Lift thy lightnings not. The tyranny of heaven none may retain, Or reassume, or hold, succeeding thee: Yet if thou wilt, as 'tis the destiny Of trodden worms to writhe till they are dead, Put forth thy might. Jupiter.            Detested prodigy! Even thus beneath the deep Titanian prisons I trample thee! thou lingerest?                  Mercy! mercy! No pity, no release, no respite! Oh, That thou wouldst make mine enemy my judge, Even where he hangs, seared by my long revenge, On Caucasus! he would not doom me thus. Gentle, and just, and dreadless, is he not The monarch of the world? What then art thou? No refuge! no appeal!            Sink with me then, We two will sink on the wide waves of ruin, Even as a vulture and a snake outspent Drop, twisted in inextricable fight, Into a shoreless sea. Let hell unlock Its mounded oceans of tempestuous fire, And whelm on them into the bottomless void This desolated world, and thee, and me, The conqueror and the conquered, and the wreck Of that for which they combated.                  Ai! Ai! The elements obey me not. I sink Dizzily down, ever, for ever, down. And, like a cloud, mine enemy above Darkens my fall with victory! Ai, Ai! Scene II. The Mouth of a great River in the Island Atlantis.Ocean is discovered reclining near the Shore; Apollo stands beside him. Ocean. He fell, thou sayest, beneath his conqueror's frown? Apollo. Ay, when the strife was ended which made dim The orb I rule, and shook the solid stars, The terrors of his eye illumined heaven With sanguine light, through the thick ragged skirts Of the victorious darkness, as he fell: Like the last glare of day's red agony, Which, from a rent among the fiery clouds, Burns far along the tempest-wrinkled deep. Ocean. He sunk to the abyss? To the dark void? Apollo. An eagle so caught in some bursting cloud On Caucasus, his thunder-baffled wings Entangled in the whirlwind, and his eyes Which gazed on the undazzling sun, now blinded By the white lightning, while the ponderous hail Beats on his struggling form, which sinks at length Prone, and the areal ice clings over it. Ocean. Henceforth the fields of heaven-reflecting sea Which are my realm, will heave, unstained with blood, Beneath the uplifting winds, like plains of corn Swayed by the summer air; my streams will flow Round many-peopled continents, and round Fortunate isles; and from their glassy thrones Blue Proteus and his humid nymphs shall mark The shadow of fair ships, as mortals see The floating bark of the light-laden moon With that white star, its sightless pilot's crest, Borne down the rapid sunset's ebbing sea; Tracking their path no more by blood and groans, And desolation, and the mingled voice Of slavery and command; but by the light Of wave-reflected flowers, and floating odours, And music soft, and mild, free, gentle voices, And sweetest music, such as spirits love. Apollo. And I shall gaze not on the deeds which make My mind obscure with sorrow, as eclipse Darkens the sphere I guide; but list, I hear The small, clear, silver lute of the young Spirit That sits i' the morning star. Ocean.                 Thou must away; Thy steeds will pause at even, till when farewell: The loud deep calls me home even now to feed it With azure calm out of the emerald urns Which stand for ever full beside my throne. Behold the Nereids under the green sea, Their wavering limbs borne on the wind-like stream, Their white arms lifted o'er their streaming hair With garlands pied and starry sea-flower crowns, Hastening to grace their mighty sister's joy. [A sound of waves is heard. It is the unpastured sea hungering for calm. Peace, monster; I come now. Farewell. Apollo.                     Farewell.                     Scene III. Caucasus. Prometheus, Hercules, Ione, the Earth, Spirits, Asia, and Panthea, borne in the Car with the Spirit of the Hour. Hercules unbinds Prometheus, who descends. Hercules. Most glorious among Spirits, thus doth strength To wisdom, courage, and long-suffering love, And thee, who art the form they animate, Minister like a slave. Prometheus.             Thy gentle words Are sweeter even than freedom long desired And long delayed.          Asia, thou light of life, Shadow of beauty unbeheld: and ye, Fair sister nymphs, who made long years of pain Sweet to remember, through your love and care: Henceforth we will not part. There is a cave, All overgrown with trailing odorous plants, Which curtain out the day with leaves and flowers, And paved with veind emerald, and a fountain Leaps in the midst with an awakening sound. From its curved roof the mountain's frozen tears Like snow, or silver, or long diamond spires, Hang downward, raining forth a doubtful light: And there is heard the ever-moving air, Whispering without from tree to tree, and birds, And bees; and all around are mossy seats, And the rough walls are clothed with long soft grass; A simple dwelling, which shall be our own; Where we will sit and talk of time and change, As the world ebbs and flows, ourselves unchanged. What can hide man from mutability? And if ye sigh, then I will smile; and thou, Ione, shalt chant fragments of sea-music, Until I weep, when ye shal smile away The tears she brought, which yet were sweet to shed. We will entangle buds and flowers and beams Which twinkle on the fountain's brim, and make Strange combinations out of common things, Like human babes in their brief innocence; And we will search, with looks and words of love, For hidden thoughts, each lovelier than the last, Our unexhausted spirits; and like lutes Touched by the skill of the enamoured wind, Weave harmonies divine, yet ever new, From difference sweet where discord cannot be; And hither come, sped on the charmd winds, Which meet from all the points of heaven, as bees From every flower areal Enna feeds, At their known island-homes in Himera, The echoes of the human world, which tell Of the low voice of love, almost unheard, And dove-eyed pity's murmured pain, and music, Itself the echo of the heart, and all That tempers or improves man's life, now free; And lovely apparitions,dim at first, Then radiant, as the mind, arising bright From the embrace of beauty (whence the forms Of which these are the phantoms) casts on them The gathered rays which are reality Shall visit us, the progeny immortal Of Painting, Sculpture, and rapt Poesy, And arts, though unimagined, yet to be. The wandering voices and the shadows these Of all that man becomes, the mediators Of that best worship love, by him and us Given and returned; swift shapes and sounds, which grow More fair and soft as man grows wise and kind, And, veil by veil, evil and error fall: Such virtue has the cave and place around. [Turning to the Spirit of the Hour. For thee, fair Spirit, one toil remains. Ione, Give her that curvd shell, which Proteus old Made Asia's nuptial boon, breathing within it A voice to be accomplished, and which thou Didst hide in grass under the hollow rock. Ione. Thou most desired Hour, more loved and lovely Than all thy sisters, this is the mystic shell; See the pale azure fading into silver Lining it with a soft yet glowing light: Looks it not like lulled music sleeping there? Spirit. It seems in truth the fairest shell of Ocean: Its sound must be at once both sweet and strange. Prometheus. Go, borne over the cities of mankind On whirlwind-footed coursers: once again Outspeed the sun around the orbd world; And as thy chariot cleaves the kindling air, Thou breathe into the many-folded shell, Loosening its mighty music; it shall be As thunder mingled with clear echoes: then Return; and thou shalt dwell beside our cave. And thou, O, Mother Earth! The Earth.                I hear, I feel; Thy lips are on me, and their touch runs down Even to the adamantine central gloom Along these marble nerves; 'tis life, 'tis joy, And through my withered, old, and icy frame The warmth of an immortal youth shoots down Circling. Henceforth the many children fair Folded in my sustaining arms; all plants, And creeping forms, and insects rainbow-winged, And birds, and beasts, and fish, and human shapes, Which drew disease and pain from my wan bosom, Draining the poison of despair, shall take And interchange sweet nutriment; to me Shall they become like sister-antelopes By one fair dam, snow-white and swift as wind, Nursed among lilies near a brimming stream. The dew-mists of my sunless sleep shall float Under the stars like balm: night-folded flowers Shall suck unwithering hues in their repose: And men and beasts in happy dreams shall gather Strength for the coming day, and all its joy: And death shall be the last embrace of her Who takes the life she gave, even as a mother Folding her child, says, 'Leave me not again.' Asia. Oh, mother! wherefore speak the name of death? Cease they to love, and move, and breathe, and speak, Who die? The Earth.     It would avail not to reply: Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known But to the uncommunicating dead. Death is the veil which those who live call life: They sleep, and it is lifted: and meanwhile In mild variety the seasons mild With rainbow-skirted showers, and odorous winds, And long blue meteors cleansing the dull night, And the life-kindling shafts of the keen sun's All-piercing bow, and the dew-mingled rain Of the calm moonbeams, a soft influence mild, Shall clothe the forests and the fields, ay, even The crag-built deserts of the barren deep, With ever-living leaves, and fruits, and flowers. And thou! There is a cavern where my spirit Was panted forth in anguish whilst thy pain Made my heart mad, and those who did inhale it Became mad too, and built a temple there, And spoke, and were oracular, and lured The erring nations round to mutual war, And faithless faith, such as Jove kept with thee; Which breath now rises, as amongst tall weeds A violet's exhalation, and it fills With a serener light and crimson air Intense, yet soft, the rocks and woods around; It feeds the quick growth of the serpent vine, And the dark linkd ivy tangling wild, And budding, blown, or odour-faded blooms Which star the winds with points of coloured light, As they rain through them, and bright golden globes Of fruit, suspended in their own green heaven, And through their veind leaves and amber stems The flowers whose purple and translucid bowls Stand ever mantling with areal dew, The drink of spirits: and it circles round, Like the soft waving wings of noonday dreams, Inspiring calm and happy thoughts, like mine, Now thou art thus restored. This cave is thine. Arise! Appear! [A Spirit rises in the likeness of a winged child.        This is my torch-bearer; Who let his lamp out in old time with gazing On eyes from which he kindled it anew With love, which is as fire, sweet daughter mine, For such is that within thine own. Run, wayward, And guide this company beyond the peak Of Bacchic Nysa, Mnad-haunted mountain, And beyond Indus and its tribute rivers, Trampling the torrent streams and glassy lakes With feet unwet, unwearied, undelaying, And up the green ravine, across the vale, Beside the windless and crystalline pool, Where ever lies, on unerasing waves, The image of a temple, built above, Distinct with column, arch, and architrave, And palm-like capital, and over-wrought, And populous with most living imagery, Praxitelean shapes, whose marble smiles Fill the hushed air with everlasting love. It is deserted now, but once it bore Thy name, Prometheus; there the emulous youths Bore to thy honour through the divine gloom The lamp which was thine emblem; even as those Who bear the untransmitted torch of hope Into the grave, across the night of life, As thou hast borne it most triumphantly To this far goal of Time. Depart, farewell. Beside that temple is the destined cave. Scene IV. A Forest. In the Background a Cave. Prometheus, Asia, Panthea, Ione, and the Spirit of the Earth. Ione. Sister, it is not earthly: how it glides Under the leaves! how on its head there burns A light, like a green star, whose emerald beams Are twined with its fair hair! how, as it moves, The splendour drops in flakes upon the grass! Knowest thou it? Panthea.          It is the delicate spirit That guides the earth through heaven. From afar The populous constellations call that light The loveliest of the planets; and sometimes It floats along the spray of the salt sea, Or makes its chariot of a foggy cloud, Or walks through fields or cities while men sleep, Or o'er the mountain tops, or down the rivers, Or through the green waste wilderness, as now, Wondering at all it sees. Before Jove reigned It loved our sister Asia, and it came Each leisure hour to drink the liquid light Out of her eyes, for which it said it thirsted As one bit by a dipsas, and with her It made its childish confidence, and told her All it had known or seen, for it saw much, Yet idly reasoned what it saw; and called her For whence it sprung it knew not, nor do I Mother, dear mother. The Spirit of the Earth (running to Asia).            Mother, dearest mother; May I then talk with thee as I was wont? May I then hide my eyes in thy soft arms, After thy looks have made them tired of joy? May I then play beside thee the long noons, When work is none in the bright silent air? Asia. I love thee, gentlest being, and henceforth Can cherish thee unenvied: speak, I pray: Thy simple talk once solaced, now delights. Spirit of the Earth. Mother, I am grown wiser, though a child Cannot be wise like thee, within this day; And happier too; happier and wiser both. Thou knowest that toads, and snakes, and loathly worms, And venomous and malicious beasts, and boughs That bore ill berries in the woods, were ever An hindrance to my walks o'er the green world: And that, among the haunts of humankind, Hard-featured men, or with proud, angry looks, Or cold, staid gait, or false and hollow smiles, Or the dull sneer of self-loved ignorance, Or other such foul masks, with which ill thoughts Hide that fair being whom we spirits call man; And women too, ugliest of all things evil, (Though fair, even in a world where thou art fair, When good and kind, free and sincere like thee), When false or frowning made me sick at heart To pass them, though they slept, and I unseen. Well, my path lately lay through a great city Into the woody hills surrounding it: A sentinel was sleeping at the gate: When there was heard a sound, so loud, it shook The towers amid the moonlight, yet more sweet Than any voice but thine, sweetest of all; A long, long sound, as it would never end: And all the inhabitants leaped suddenly Out of their rest, and gathered in the streets, Looking in wonder up to Heaven, while yet The music pealed along. I hid myself Within a fountain in the public square, Where I lay like the reflex of the moon Seen in a wave under green leaves; and soon Those ugly human shapes and visages Of which I spoke as having wrought me pain, Passed floating through the air, and fading still Into the winds that scattered them; and those From whom they passed seemed mild and lovely forms After some foul disguise had fallen, and all Were somewhat changed, and after brief surprise And greetings of delighted wonder, all Went to their sleep again: and when the dawn Came, wouldst thou think that toads, and snakes, and efts, Could e'er be beautiful? yet so they were, And that with little change of shape or hue: All things had put their evil nature off: I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lake Upon a drooping bough with nightshade twined, I saw two azure halcyons clinging downward And thinning one bright bunch of amber berries, With quick long beaks, and in the deep there lay Those lovely forms imaged as in a sky; So, with my thoughts full of these happy changes, We meet again, the happiest change of all. Asia. And never will we part, till thy chaste sister Who guides the frozen and inconstant moon Will look on thy more warm and equal light Till her heart thaw like flakes of April snow And love thee. Spirit of the Earth.        What; as Asia loves Prometheus?        Asia. Peace, wanton, thou art yet not old enough. Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes To multiply your lovely selves, and fill With spherd fires the interlunar air? Spirit of the Earth. Nay, mother, while my sister trims her lamp 'Tis hard I should go darkling. Asia.                  Listen; look!                  [The Spirit of the Hour enters. Prometheus. We feel what thou hast heard and seen: yet speak. Spirit of the Hour. Soon as the sound had ceased whose thunder filled The abysses of the sky and the wide earth, There was a change: the impalpable thin air And the all-circling sunlight were transformed, As if the sense of love dissolved in them Had folded itself round the spherd world. My vision then grew clear, and I could see Into the mysteries of the universe: Dizzy as with delight I floated down, Winnowing the lightsome air with languid plumes, My coursers sought their birthplace in the sun, Where they henceforth will live exempt from toil, Pasturing flowers of vegetable fire; And where my moonlike car will stand within A temple, gazed upon by Phidian forms Of thee, and Asia, and the Earth, and me, And you fair nymphs looking the love we feel, In memory of the tidings it has borne, Beneath a dome fretted with graven flowers, Poised on twelve columns of resplendent stone, And open to the bright and liquid sky. Yoked to it by an amphisbaenic snake The likeness of those wingd steeds will mock The flight from which they find repose. Alas, Whither has wandered now my partial tongue When all remains untold which ye would hear? As I have said, I floated to the earth: It was, as it is still, the pain of bliss To move, to breathe, to be; I wandering went Among the haunts and dwellings of mankind, And first was disappointed not to see Such mighty change as I had felt within Expressed in outward things; but soon I looked, And behold, thrones were kingless, and men walked One with the other even as spirits do, None fawned, none trampled; hate, disdain, or fear, Self-love or self-contempt, on human brows No more inscribed, as o'er the gate of hell, 'All hope abandon ye who enter here;' None frowned, none trembled, none with eager fear Gazed on another's eye of cold command, Until the subject of a tyrant's will Became, worse fate, the abject of his own, Which spurred him, like an outspent horse, to death. None wrought his lips in truth-entangling lines Which smiled the lie his tongue disdained to speak; None, with firm sneer, trod out in his own heart The sparks of love and hope till there remained Those bitter ashes, a soul self-consumed, And the wretch crept a vampire among men, Infecting all with his own hideous ill; None talked that common, false, cold, hollow talk Which makes the heart deny the yes it breathes, Yet question that unmeant hypocrisy With such a self-mistrust as has no name. And women, too, frank, beautiful, and kind As the free heaven which rains fresh light and dew On the wide earth, past; gentle radiant forms, From custom's evil taint exempt and pure; Speaking the wisdom once they could not think, Looking emotions once they feared to feel, And changed to all which once they dared not be, Yet being now, made earth like heaven; nor pride, Nor jealousy, nor envy, nor ill shame, The bitterest of those drops of treasured gall, Spoilt the sweet taste of the nepenthe, love. Thrones, altars, judgement-seats, and prisons; wherein, And beside which, by wretched men were borne Sceptres, tiaras, swords, and chains, and tomes Of reasoned wrong, glozed on by ignorance, Were like those monstrous and barbaric shapes, The ghosts of a no-more-remembered fame, Which, from their unworn obelisks, look forth In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs Of those who were their conquerors: mouldering round, These imaged to the pride of kings and priests A dark yet mighty faith, a power as wide As is the world it wasted, and are now But an astonishment; even so the tools And emblems of its last captivity, Amid the dwellings of the peopled earth, Stand, not o'erthrown, but unregarded now. And those foul shapes, abhorred by god and man, Which, under many a name and many a form Strange, savage, ghastly, dark and execrable, Were Jupiter, the tyrant of the world; And which the nations, panic-stricken, served With blood, and hearts broken by long hope, and love Dragged to his altars soiled and garlandless, And slain amid men's unreclaiming tears, Flattering the thing they feared, which fear was hate, Frown, mouldering fast, o'er their abandoned shrines: The painted veil, by those who were, called life, Which mimicked, as with colours idly spread, All men believed or hoped, is torn aside; The loathsome mask has fallen, the man remains Sceptreless, free, uncircumscribed, but man Equal, unclassed, tribeless, and nationless, Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the king Over himself; just, gentle, wise: but man Passionless?no, yet free from guilt or pain, Which were, for his will made or suffered them, Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like slaves, From chance, and death, and mutability, The clogs of that which else might oversoar The loftiest star of unascended heaven, Pinnacled dim in the intense inane. END OF THE THIRD ACT. ACT IV Scene.A Part of the Forest near the Cave of Prometheus.Panthea and Ione are sleeping: they awaken gradually during the first Song. Voice of unseen Spirits. The pale stars are gone! For the sun, their swift shepherd, To their folds them compelling, In the depths of the dawn, Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing array, and they flee Beyond his blue dwelling, As fawns flee the leopard.   But where are ye?   A Train of dark Forms and Shadows passes by confusedly, singing. Here, oh, here: We bear the bier Of the Father of many a cancelled year! Spectres we Of the dead Hours be, We bear Time to his tomb in eternity. Strew, oh, strew Hair, not yew! Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew! Be the faded flowers Of Death's bare bowers Spread on the corpse of the King of Hours! Haste, oh, haste! As shades are chased, Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue waste. We melt away, Like dissolving spray, From the children of a diviner day, With the lullaby Of winds that die On the bosom of their own harmony! Ione. What dark forms were they? Panthea. The past Hours weak and gray, With the spoil which their toil Raked together From the conquest but One could foil. Ione. Have they passed? Panthea.          They have passed; They outspeeded the blast, While 'tis said, they are fled: Ione. Whither, oh, whither? Panthea. To the dark, to the past, to the dead. Voice of unseen Spirits. Bright clouds float in heaven, Dew-stars gleam on earth, Waves assemble on ocean, They are gathered and driven By the storm of delight, by the panic of glee! They shake with emotion, They dance in their mirth.   But where are ye?    The pine boughs are singing Old songs with new gladness, The billows and fountains Fresh music are flinging, Like the notes of a spirit from land and from sea; The storms mock the mountains With the thunder of gladness.   But where are ye?   Ione. What charioteers are these? Panthea.                Where are their chariots?                Semichorus of Hours. The voice of the Spirits of Air and of Earth Have drawn back the figured curtain of sleep Which covered our being and darkened our birth In the deep. A Voice.       In the deep?       Semichorus II.              Oh, below the deep.              Semichorus I. An hundred ages we had been kept Cradled in visions of hate and care, And each one who waked as his brother slept, Found the truth Semichorus II.           Worse than his visions were!           Semichorus I. We have heard the lute of Hope in sleep; We have known the voice of Love in dreams; We have felt the wand of Power, and leap Semichorus II. As the billows leap in the morning beams! Chorus. Weave the dance on the floor of the breeze, Pierce with song heaven's silent light, Enchant the day that too swiftly flees, To check its flight ere the cave of Night. Once the hungry Hours were hounds Which chased the day like a bleeding deer, And it limped and stumbled with many wounds Through the nightly dells of the desert year. But now, oh weave the mystic measure Of music, and dance, and shapes of light, Let the Hours, and the spirits of might and pleasure, Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite. A Voice.                     Unite!                     Panthea. See, where the Spirits of the human mind Wrapped in sweet sounds, as in bright veils, approach. Chorus of Spirits. We join the throng Of the dance and the song, By the whirlwind of gladness borne along; As the flying-fish leap From the Indian deep, And mix with the sea-birds, half asleep. Chorus of Hours. Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet, For sandals of lightning are on your feet, And your wings are soft and swift as thought, And your eyes are as love which is veild not? Chorus of Spirits. We come from the mind Of human kind Which was late so dusk, and obscene, and blind, Now 'tis an ocean Of clear emotion, A heaven of serene and mighty motion From that deep abyss Of wonder and bliss, Whose caverns are crystal palaces; From those skiey towers Where Thought's crowned powers Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours! From the dim recesses Of woven caresses, Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses From the azure isles, Where sweet Wisdom smiles, Delaying your ships with her siren wiles. From the temples high Of Man's ear and eye, Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy; From the murmurings Of the unsealed springs Where Science bedews her Ddal wings. Years after years, Through blood, and tears, And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, and fears; We waded and flew, And the islets were few Where the bud-blighted flowers of happiness grew. Our feet now, every palm, Are sandalled with calm, And the dew of our wings is a rain of balm; And, beyond our eyes, The human love lies Which makes all it gazes on Paradise. Chorus of Spirits and Hours. Then weave the web of the mystic measure; From the depths of the sky and the ends of the earth, Come, swift Spirits of might and of pleasure, Fill the dance and the music of mirth, As the waves of a thousand streams rush by To an ocean of splendour and harmony! Chorus of Spirits. Our spoil is won, Our task is done, We are free to dive, or soar, or run; Beyond and around, Or within the bound Which clips the world with darkness round. We'll pass the eyes Of the starry skies Into the hoar deep to colonize: Death, Chaos, and Night, From the sound of our flight, Shall flee, like mist from a tempest's might. And Earth, Air, and Light, And the Spirit of Might, Which drives round the stars in their fiery flight; And Love, Thought, and Breath, The powers that quell Death, Wherever we soar shall assemble beneath. And our singing shall build In the void's loose field A world for the Spirit of Wisdom to wield; We will take our plan From the new world of man, And our work shall be called the Promethean. Chorus of Hours. Break the dance, and scatter the song; Let some depart, and some remain. Semichorus I. We, beyond heaven, are driven along: Semichorus II. Us the enchantments of earth retain: Semichorus I. Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free, With the Spirits which build a new earth and sea, And a heaven where yet heaven could never be. Semichorus II. Solemn, and slow, and serene, and bright, Leading the Day and outspeeding the Night, With the powers of a world of perfect light. Semichorus I. We whirl, singing loud, round the gathering sphere, Till the trees, and the beasts, and the clouds appear From its chaos made calm by love, not fear. Semichorus II. We encircle the ocean and mountains of earth, And the happy forms of its death and birth Change to the music of our sweet mirth. Chorus of Hours and Spirits. Break the dance, and scatter the song, Let some depart, and some remain, Wherever we fly we lead along In leashes, like starbeams, soft yet strong, The clouds that are heavy with love's sweet rain. Panthea. Ha! they are gone! Ione.           Yet feel you no delight From the past sweetness? Panthea.              As the bare green hill When some soft cloud vanishes into rain, Laughs with a thousand drops of sunny water To the unpavilioned sky! Ione.              Even whilst we speak New notes arise. What is that awful sound? Panthea. 'Tis the deep music of the rolling world Kindling within the strings of the waved air olian modulations. Ione.           Listen too, How every pause is filled with under-notes, Clear, silver, icy, keen, awakening tones, Which pierce the sense, and live within the soul, As the sharp stars pierce winter's crystal air And gaze upon themselves within the sea. Panthea. But see where through two openings in the forest Which hanging branches overcanopy, And where two runnels of a rivulet, Between the close moss violet-inwoven, Have made their path of melody, like sisters Who part with sighs that they may meet in smiles, Turning their dear disunion to an isle Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad thoughts; Two visions of strange radiance float upon The ocean-like enchantment of strong sound, Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet Under the ground and through the windless air. Ione. I see a chariot like that thinnest boat, In which the Mother of the Months is borne By ebbing light into her western cave, When she upsprings from interlunar dreams; O'er which is curved an orblike canopy Of gentle darkness, and the hills and woods, Distinctly seen through that dusk aery veil, Regard like shapes in an enchanter's glass; Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and gold, Such as the genii of the thunderstorm Pile on the floor of the illumined sea When the sun rushes under it; they roll And move and grow as with an inward wind; Within it sits a wingd infant, white Its countenance, like the whiteness of bright snow, Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost, Its limbs gleam white, through the wind-flowing folds Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl. Its hair is white, the brightness of white light Scattered in strings; yet its two eyes are heavens Of liquid darkness, which the Deity Within seems pouring, as a storm is poured From jaggd clouds, out of their arrowy lashes, Tempering the cold and radiant air around, With fire that is not brightness; in its hand It sways a quivering moonbeam, from whose point A guiding power directs the chariot's prow Over its wheeld clouds, which as they roll Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, wake sounds, Sweet as a singing rain of silver dew. Panthea. And from the other opening in the wood Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony, A sphere, which is as many thousand spheres, Solid as crystal, yet through all its mass Flow, as through empty space, music and light: Ten thousand orbs involving and involved, Purple and azure, white, and green, and golden, Sphere within sphere; and every space between Peopled with unimaginable shapes, Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless deep, Yet each inter-transpicuous, and they whirl Over each other with a thousand motions, Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning, And with the force of self-destroying swiftness, Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on, Kindling with mingled sounds, and many tones, Intelligible words and music wild. With mighty whirl the multitudinous orb Grinds the bright brook into an azure mist Of elemental subtlety, like light; And the wild odour of the forest flowers, The music of the living grass and air, The emerald light of leaf-entangled beams Round its intense yet self-conflicting speed, Seem kneaded into one areal mass Which drowns the sense. Within the orb itself, Pillowed upon its alabaster arms, Like to a child o'erwearied with sweet toil, On its own folded wings, and wavy hair, The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep, And you can see its little lips are moving, Amid the changing light of their own smiles, Like one who talks of what he loves in dream. Ione. 'Tis only mocking the orb's harmony. Panthea. And from a star upon its forehead, shoot, Like swords of azure fire, or golden spears With tyrant-quelling myrtle overtwined, Embleming heaven and earth united now, Vast beams like spokes of some invisible wheel Which whirl as the orb whirls, swifter than thought, Filling the abyss with sun-like lightenings, And perpendicular now, and now transverse, Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce and pass, Make bare the secrets of the earth's deep heart; Infinite mines of adamant and gold, Valueless stones, and unimagined gems, And caverns on crystalline columns poised With vegetable silver overspread; Wells of unfathomed fire, and water springs Whence the great sea, even as a child is fed, Whose vapours clothe earth's monarch mountain-tops With kingly, ermine snow. The beams flash on And make appear the melancholy ruins Of cancelled cycles; anchors, beaks of ships; Planks turned to marble; quivers, helms, and spears, And gorgon-headed targes, and the wheels Of scythd chariots, and the emblazonry Of trophies, standards, and armorial beasts, Round which death laughed, sepulchred emblems Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin! The wrecks beside of many a city vast, Whose population which the earth grew over Was mortal, but not human; see, they lie, Their monstrous works, and uncouth skeletons, Their statues, homes and fanes; prodigious shapes Huddled in gray annihilation, split, Jammed in the hard, black deep; and over these, The anatomies of unknown wingd things, And fishes which were isles of living scale, And serpents, bony chains, twisted around The iron crags, or within heaps of dust To which the tortuous strength of their last pangs Had crushed the iron crags; and over these The jaggd alligator, and the might Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which once Were monarch beasts, and on the slimy shores, And weed-overgrown continents of earth, Increased and multiplied like summer worms On an abandoned corpse, till the blue globe Wrapped deluge round it like a cloak, and they Yelled, gasped, and were abolished; or some God Whose throne was in a comet, passed, and cried, 'Be not!' And like my words they were no more. The Earth. The joy, the triumph, the delight, the madness! The boundless, overflowing, bursting gladness, The vaporous exultation not to be confined! Ha! ha! the animation of delight Which wraps me, like an atmosphere of light, And bears me as a cloud is borne by its own wind. The Moon. Brother mine, calm wanderer, Happy globe of land and air, Some Spirit is darted like a beam from thee, Which penetrates my frozen frame, And passes with the warmth of flame, With love, and odour, and deep melody   Through me, through me!   The Earth. Ha! ha! the caverns of my hollow mountains, My cloven fire-crags, sound-exulting fountains Laugh with a vast and inextinguishable laughter. The oceans, and the deserts, and the abysses, And the deep air's unmeasured wildernesses, Answer from all their clouds and billows, echoing after. They cry aloud as I do. Sceptred curse, Who all our green and azure universe Threatenedst to muffle round with black destruction, sending A solid cloud to rain hot thunderstones, And splinter and knead down my children's bones, All I bring forth, to one void mass battering and blending, Until each crag-like tower, and storied column, Palace, and obelisk, and temple solemn, My imperial mountains crowned with cloud, and snow, and fire; My sea-like forests, every blade and blossom Which finds a grave or cradle in my bosom, Were stamped by thy strong hate into a lifeless mire: How art thou sunk, withdrawn, covered, drunk up By thirsty nothing, as the brackish cup Drained by a desert-troop, a little drop for all; And from beneath, around, within, above, Filling thy void annihilation, love Burst in like light on caves cloven by the thunder-ball. The Moon. The snow upon my lifeless mountains Is loosened into living fountains, My solid oceans flow, and sing, and shine: A spirit from my heart bursts forth, It clothes with unexpected birth My cold bare bosom: Oh! it must be thine   On mine, on mine!    Gazing on thee I feel, I know Green stalks burst forth, and bright flowers grow, And living shapes upon my bosom move: Music is in the sea and air, Wingd clouds soar here and there, Dark with the rain new buds are dreaming of:   'Tis love, all love!   The Earth. It interpenetrates my granite mass, Through tangled roots and trodden clay doth pass Into the utmost leaves and delicatest flowers; Upon the winds, among the clouds 'tis spread, It wakes a life in the forgotten dead, They breathe a spirit up from their obscurest bowers. And like a storm bursting its cloudy prison With thunder, and with whirlwind, has arisen Out of the lampless caves of unimagined being: With earthquake shock and swiftness making shiver Thought's stagnant chaos, unremoved for ever, Till hate, and fear, and pain, light-vanquished shadows, fleeing, Leave Man, who was a many-sided mirror, Which could distort to many a shape of error, This true fair world of things, a sea reflecting love; Which over all his kind, as the sun's heaven Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene, and even, Darting from starry depths radiance and life, doth move: Leave Man, even as a leprous child is left, Who follows a sick beast to some warm cleft Of rocks, through which the might of healing springs is poured; Then when it wanders home with rosy smile, Unconscious, and its mother fears awhile It is a spirit, then, weeps on her child restored. Man, oh, not men! a chain of linkd thought, Of love and might to be divided not, Compelling the elements with adamantine stress; As the sun rules, even with a tyrant's gaze, The unquiet republic of the maze Of planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free wilderness. Man, one harmonious soul of many a soul, Whose nature is its own divine control, Where all things flow to all, as rivers to the sea; Familiar acts are beautiful through love; Labour, and pain, and grief, in life's green grove Sport like tame beasts, none knew how gentle they could be! His will, with all mean passions, bad delights, And selfish cares, its trembling satellites, A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to obey, Is as a tempest-wingd ship, whose helm Love rules, through waves which dare not overwhelm, Forcing life's wildest shores to own its sovereign sway. All things confess his strength. Through the cold mass Of marble and of colour his dreams pass; Bright threads whence mothers weave the robes their children wear; Language is a perpetual Orphic song, Which rules with Ddal harmony a throng Of thoughts and forms, which else senseless and shapeless were. The lightning is his slave; heaven's utmost deep Gives up her stars, and like a flock of sheep They pass before his eye, are numbered, and roll on! The tempest is his steed, he strides the air; And the abyss shouts from her depth laid bare, Heaven, hast thou secrets? Man unveils me; I have none. The Moon. The shadow of white death has passed From my path in heaven at last, A clinging shroud of solid frost and sleep; And through my newly-woven bowers, Wander happy paramours, Less mighty, but as mild as those who keep   Thy vales more deep.   The Earth. As the dissolving warmth of dawn may fold A half unfrozen dew-globe, green, and gold, And crystalline, till it becomes a wingd mist, And wanders up the vault of the blue day, Outlives the moon, and on the sun's last ray Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of fire and amethyst. The Moon. Thou art folded, thou art lying In the light which is undying Of thine own joy, and heaven's smile divine; All suns and constellations shower On thee a light, a life, a power Which doth array thy sphere; thou pourest thine   On mine, on mine!   The Earth. I spin beneath my pyramid of night, Which points into the heavens dreaming delight, Murmuring victorious joy in my enchanted sleep; As a youth lulled in love-dreams faintly sighing, Under the shadow of his beauty lying, Which round his rest a watch of light and warmth doth keep. The Moon. As in the soft and sweet eclipse, When soul meets soul on lovers' lips, High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes are dull; So when thy shadow falls on me, Then am I mute and still, by thee Covered; of thy love, Orb most beautiful,   Full, oh, too full!    Thou art speeding round the sun Brightest world of many a one; Green and azure sphere which shinest With a light which is divinest Among all the lamps of Heaven To whom life and light is given; I, thy crystal paramour Borne beside thee by a power Like the polar Paradise, Magnet-like of lovers' eyes; I, a most enamoured maiden Whose weak brain is overladen With the pleasure of her love, Maniac-like around thee move Gazing, an insatiate bride, On thy form from every side Like a Mnad, round the cup Which Agave lifted up In the weird Cadman forest. Brother, wheresoe'er thou soarest I must hurry, whirl and follow Through the heavens wide and hollow, Sheltered by the warm embrace Of thy soul from hungry space, Drinking from thy sense and sight Beauty, majesty, and might, As a lover or a chameleon Grows like what it looks upon, As a violet's gentle eye Gazes on the azure sky Until its hue grows like what it beholds, As a gray and watery mist Glows like solid amethyst Athwart the western mountain it enfolds, When the sunset sleeps   Upon its snow   The Earth.   And the weak day weeps    That it should be so. Oh, gentle Moon, the voice of thy delight Falls on me like thy clear and tender light Soothing the seaman, borne the summer night, Through isles for ever calm; Oh, gentle Moon, thy crystal accents pierce The caverns of my pride's deep universe, Charming the tiger joy, whose tramplings fierce Made wounds which need thy balm. Panthea. I rise as from a bath of sparkling water, A bath of azure light, among dark rocks, Out of the stream of sound. Ione.                Ah me! sweet sister, The stream of sound has ebbed away from us, And you pretend to rise out of its wave, Because your words fall like the clear, soft dew Shaken from a bathing wood-nymph's limbs and hair. Panthea. Peace! peace! A mighty Power, which is as darkness, Is rising out of Earth, and from the sky Is showered like night, and from within the air Bursts, like eclipse which had been gathered up Into the pores of sunlight: the bright visions, Wherein the singing spirits rode and shone, Gleam like pale meteors through a watery night. Ione. There is a sense of words upon mine ear. Panthea. An universal sound like words: Oh, list! Demogorgon. Thou, Earth, calm empire of a happy soul, Sphere of divinest shapes and harmonies, Beautiful orb! gathering as thou dost roll The love which paves thy path along the skies: The Earth. I hear: I am as a drop of dew that dies. Demogorgon. Thou, Moon, which gazest on the nightly Earth With wonder, as it gazes upon thee; Whilst each to men, and beasts, and the swift birth Of birds, is beauty, love, calm, harmony: The Moon. I hear: I am a leaf shaken by thee! Demogorgon. Ye Kings of suns and stars, Dmons and Gods, Aetherial Dominations, who possess Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes Beyond Heaven's constellated wilderness: A Voice from above. Our great Republic hears, we are blest, and bless. Demogorgon. Ye happy Dead, whom beams of brightest verse Are clouds to hide, not colours to portray, Whether your nature is that universe Which once ye saw and suffered A Voice from beneath.                  Or as they Whom we have left, we change and pass away. Demogorgon. Ye elemental Genii, who have homes From man's high mind even to the central stone Of sullen lead; from heaven's star-fretted domes To the dull weed some sea-worm battens on: A confused Voice. We hear: thy words waken Oblivion. Demogorgon. Spirits, whose homes are flesh: ye beasts and birds, Ye worms, and fish; ye living leaves and buds; Lightning and wind; and ye untameable herds, Meteors and mists, which throng air's solitudes: A Voice. Thy voice to us is wind among still woods. Demogorgon. Man, who wert once a despot and a slave; A dupe and a deceiver; a decay; A traveller from the cradle to the grave Through the dim night of this immortal day: All. Speak: thy strong words may never pass away. Demogorgon. This is the day, which down the void abysm At the Earth-born's spell yawns for Heaven's despotism, And Conquest is dragged captive through the deep: Love, from its awful throne of patient power In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep, And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs And folds over the world its healing wings. Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance, These are the seals of that most firm assurance Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength; And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, Mother of many acts and hours, should free The serpent that would clasp her with his length; These are the spells by which to reassume An empire o'er the disentangled doom. To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent; To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent; This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory. Composed at Este, Sept., Oct., 1818 (Act I); at Rome, March - April 6, 1819 (Acts II, III); at Florence, close of 1819 (Act IV). Published by C. and J. Ollier, London, summer of 1820. Note from Mrs. Shelley: 'On the 12th of March, 1818, Shelley quitted England, never to return. His principal motive was the hope that his health would be improved by a milder climate; he suffered very much during the winter previous to his emigration, and this decided his vacillating purpose. .....Through the whole poem there reigns a sort of calm and holy spirit of love; it soothes the tortured, and is hope to the expectant, till the prophecy is fulfilled, and Love, untainted by any evil, becomes the law of the world. ....And, as he wandered among the ruins made one with Nature in their decay, or gaed on the Praxitelean shapes that throng the Vatican, the Capitol, and the palaces of Rome, his soul imbibed forms of loveliness which became a portion of itself. There are many passages in the Prometheus which show the intense delight he received from such studies, and give back the impression with a beauty of poetical description peculiarly his own. He felt this, as a poet must feel when he satisfies himself by the result of his labours; and he wrote from Rome, ''My Prometheus Unbound is just finished, and in a month or two I shall send it. It is a drama, with characters and mechanism of a kind yet unattempted; and I think the execution is better than any of my former attempts.''' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound ,

890:DRAMATIS PERSON Count Francesco Cenci. Giacomo, his Son. Bernardo, his Son. Cardinal Camillo. Orsino, a Prelate. Savella, the Pope's Legate. Olimpio, Assassin. Marzio, Assassin. Andrea, Servant to Cenci. Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants. Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children. Beatrice, his Daughter. The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines. Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII. ACT I Scene I. An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo. Camillo. That matter of the murder is hushed up If you consent to yield his Holiness Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate. It needed all my interest in the conclave To bend him to this point: he said that you Bought perilous impunity with your gold; That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded Enriched the Church, and respited from hell An erring soul which might repent and live: But that the glory and the interest Of the high throne he fills, little consist With making it a daily mart of guilt As manifold and hideous as the deeds Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes. Cenci. The third of my possessionslet it go! Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope Had sent his architect to view the ground, Meaning to build a villa on my vines The next time I compounded with his uncle: I little thought he should outwit me so! Henceforth no witnessnot the lampshall see That which the vassal threatened to divulge Whose throat is choked with dust for his reward. The deed he saw could not have rated higher Than his most worthless life:it angers me! Respited me from Hell!So may the Devil Respite their souls from Heaven. No doubt Pope Clement, And his most charitable nephews, pray That the Apostle Peter and the Saints Will grant for their sake that I long enjoy Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and length of days Wherein to act the deeds which are the stewards Of their revenue.But much yet remains To which they show no title. Camillo.                Oh, Count Cenci! So much that thou mightst honourably live And reconcile thyself with thine own heart And with thy God, and with the offended world. How hideously look deeds of lust and blood Through those snow white and venerable hairs! Your children should be sitting round you now, But that you fear to read upon their looks The shame and misery you have written there. Where is your wife? Where is your gentle daughter? Methinks her sweet looks, which make all things else Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend within you. Why is she barred from all society But her own strange and uncomplaining wrongs? Talk with me, Count,you know I mean you well I stood beside your dark and fiery youth Watching its bold and bad career, as men Watch meteors, but it vanished notI marked Your desperate and remorseless manhood; now Do I behold you in dishonoured age Charged with a thousand unrepented crimes. Yet I have ever hoped you would amend, And in that hope have saved your life three times. Cenci. For which Aldobrandino owes you now My fief beyond the Pincian.Cardinal, One thing, I pray you, recollect henceforth, And so we shall converse with less restraint. A man you knew spoke of my wife and daughter He was accustomed to frequent my house; So the next day his wife and daughter came And asked if I had seen him; and I smiled: I think they never saw him any more. Camillo. Thou execrable man, beware! Cenci.                 Of thee? Nay this is idle:We should know each other. As to my character for what men call crime Seeing I please my senses as I list, And vindicate that right with force or guile, It is a public matter, and I care not If I discuss it with you. I may speak Alike to you and my own conscious heart For you give out that you have half reformed me, Therefore strong vanity will keep you silent If fear should not; both will, I do not doubt. All men delight in sensual luxury, All men enjoy revenge; and most exult Over the tortures they can never feel Flattering their secret peace with others' pain. But I delight in nothing else. I love The sight of agony, and the sense of joy, When this shall be another's, and that mine. And I have no remorse and little fear, Which are, I think, the checks of other men. This mood has grown upon me, until now Any design my captious fancy makes The picture of its wish, and it forms none But such as men like you would start to know, Is as my natural food and rest debarred Until it be accomplished. Camillo.               Art thou not Most miserable? Cenci.         Why, miserable? No.I am what your theologians call Hardened;which they must be in impudence, So to revile a man's peculiar taste. True, I was happier than I am, while yet Manhood remained to act the thing I thought; While lust was sweeter than revenge; and now Invention palls:Ay, we must all grow old And but that there yet remains a deed to act Whose horror might make sharp an appetite Duller than mineI'd doI know not what. When I was young I thought of nothing else But pleasure; and I fed on honey sweets: Men, by St. Thomas! cannot live like bees, And I grew tired:yet, till I killed a foe, And heard his groans, and heard his children's groans, Knew I not what delight was else on earth, Which now delights me little. I the rather Look on such pangs as terror ill conceals, The dry fixed eyeball; the pale quivering lip, Which tell me that the spirit weeps within Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ. I rarely kill the body, which preserves, Like a strong prison, the soul within my power, Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear For hourly pain. Camillo.          Hell's most abandoned fiend Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt, Speak to his heart as now you speak to me; I thank my God that I believe you not. Enter Andrea. Andrea. My Lord, a gentleman from Salamanca Would speak with you. Cenci.            Bid him attend me in The grand saloon. [Exit Andrea. Camillo.          Farewell; and I will pray Almighty God that thy false, impious words Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. [Exit Camillo. Cenci. The third of my possessions! I must use Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's sword, Falls from my withered hand. But yesterday There came an order from the Pope to make Fourfold provision for my cursd sons; Whom I had sent from Rome to Salamanca, Hoping some accident might cut them off; And meaning if I could to starve them there. I pray thee, God, send some quick death upon them! Bernardo and my wife could not be worse If dead and damned:then, as to Beatrice [Looking around him suspiciously. I think they cannot hear me at that door; What if they should? And yet I need not speak Though the heart triumphs with itself in words. O, thou most silent air, that shalt not hear What now I think! Thou, pavement, which I tread Towards her chamber,let your echoes talk Of my imperious step scorning surprise, But not of my intent!Andrea! [Enter Andrea. Andrea.                 My lord?                 Cenci. Bid Beatrice attend me in her chamber This evening:no, at midnight and alone. [Exeunt. Scene II. A Garden of the Cenci Palace. EnterBeatrice and Orsino, as in conversation. Beatrice. Pervert not truth, Orsino. You remember where we held That conversation;nay, we see the spot Even from this cypress;two long years are past Since, on an April midnight, underneath The moonlight ruins of mount Palatine, I did confess to you my secret mind. Orsino. You said you loved me then. Beatrice.                You are a Priest, Speak to me not of love. Orsino.              I may obtain The dispensation of the Pope to marry. Because I am a Priest do you believe Your image, as the hunter some struck deer, Follows me not whether I wake or sleep? Beatrice. As I have said, speak to me not of love; Had you a dispensation I have not; Nor will I leave this home of misery Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle lady To whom I owe life, and these virtuous thoughts, Must suffer what I still have strength to share. Alas, Orsino! All the love that once I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain. Ours was a youthful contract, which you first Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose. And thus I love you still, but holily, Even as a sister or a spirit might; And so I swear a cold fidelity. And it is well perhaps we shall not marry. You have a sly, equivocating vein That suits me not.Ah, wretched that I am! Where shall I turn? Even now you look on me As you were not my friend, and as if you Discovered that I thought so, with false smiles Making my true suspicion seem your wrong. Ah, no! forgive me; sorrow makes me seem Sterner than else my nature might have been; I have a weight of melancholy thoughts, And they forbode,but what can they forbode Worse than I now endure? Orsino.              All will be well. Is the petition yet prepared? You know My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice; Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill So that the Pope attend to your complaint. Beatrice. Your zeal for all I wish;Ah me, you are cold! Your utmost skill . . . speak but one word . . . (aside) Alas! Weak and deserted creature that I am, Here I stand bickering with my only friend! [To Orsino. This night my father gives a sumptuous feast, Orsino; he has heard some happy news From Salamanca, from my brothers there, And with this outward show of love he mocks His inward hate. 'Tis bold hypocrisy, For he would gladlier celebrate their deaths, Which I have heard him pray for on his knees: Great God! that such a father should be mine! But there is mighty preparation made, And all our kin, the Cenci, will be there, And all the chief nobility of Rome. And he has bidden me and my pale Mother Attire ourselves in festival array. Poor lady! She expects some happy change In his dark spirit from this act; I none. At supper I will give you the petition: Till whenfarewell. Orsino.            Farewell. (Exit Beatrice.)                 I know the Pope Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly vow But by absolving me from the revenue Of many a wealthy see; and, Beatrice, I think to win thee at an easier rate. Nor shall he read her eloquent petition: He might bestow her on some poor relation Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister, And I should be debarred from all access. Then as to what she suffers from her father, In all this there is much exaggeration: Old men are testy and will have their way; A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal, And live a free life as to wine or women, And with a peevish temper may return To a dull home, and rate his wife and children; Daughters and wives call this foul tyranny. I shall be well content if on my conscience There rest no heavier sin than what they suffer From the devices of my lovea net From which she shall escape not. Yet I fear Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze, Whose beams anatomize me nerve by nerve And lay me bare, and make me blush to see My hidden thoughts.Ah, no! A friendless girl Who clings to me, as to her only hope: I were a fool, not less than if a panther Were panic-stricken by the antelope's eye, If she escape me. [Exit. Scene III. A Magnificent Hall in the Cenci Palace. A Banquet. Enter Cenci, Lucretia, Beatrice, Orsino, Camillo, Nobles. Cenci. Welcome, my friends and kinsmen; welcome ye, Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the church, Whose presence honours our festivity. I have too long lived like an anchorite, And in my absence from your merry meetings An evil word is gone abroad of me; But I do hope that you, my noble friends, When you have shared the entertainment here, And heard the pious cause for which 'tis given, And we have pledged a health or two together, Will think me flesh and blood as well as you; Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so, But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful. First Guest. In truth, my Lord, you seem too light of heart, Too sprightly and companionable a man, To act the deeds that rumour pins on you. (To his Companion.) I never saw such blithe and open cheer In any eye! Second Guest.       Some most desired event, In which we all demand a common joy, Has brought us hither; let us hear it, Count. Cenci. It is indeed a most desired event. If, when a parent from a parent's heart Lifts from this earth to the great Father of all A prayer, both when he lays him down to sleep, And when he rises up from dreaming it; One supplication, one desire, one hope, That he would grant a wish for his two sons, Even all that he demands in their regard And suddenly beyond his dearest hope It is accomplished, he should then rejoice, And call his friends and kinsmen to a feast, And task their love to grace his merriment, Then honour me thus farfor I am he. Beatrice (to Lucretia). Great God! How horrible! Some dreadful ill Must have befallen my brothers. Lucretia.                  Fear not, Child, He speaks too frankly. Beatrice.             Ah! My blood runs cold. I fear that wicked laughter round his eye, Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair. Cenci. Here are the letters brought from Salamanca; Beatrice, read them to your mother. God! I thank thee! In one night didst thou perform, By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought. My disobedient and rebellious sons Are dead!Why, dead!What means this change of cheer? You hear me not, I tell you they are dead; And they will need no food or raiment more: The tapers that did light them the dark way Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, will not Expect I should maintain them in their coffins. Rejoice with memy heart is wondrous glad. [Lucretia sinks, half fainting; Beatrice supports her. Beatrice. It is not true!Dear lady, pray look up. Had it been true, there is a God in Heaven, He would not live to boast of such a boon. Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is false. Cenci. Ay, as the word of God; whom here I call To witness that I speak the sober truth; And whose most favouring Providence was shown Even in the manner of their deaths. For Rocco Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen others, When the church fell and crushed him to a mummy, The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofano Was stabbed in error by a jealous man, Whilst she he loved was sleeping with his rival; All in the self-same hour of the same night; Which shows that Heaven has special care of me. I beg those friends who love me, that they mark The day a feast upon their calendars. It was the twenty-seventh of December: Ay, read the letters if you doubt my oath. [The Assembly appears confused; several of the guests rise. First Guest. Oh, horrible! I will depart Second Guest.                 And I.                 Third Guest.                     No, stay! I do believe it is some jest; though faith! 'Tis mocking us somewhat too solemnly. I think his son has married the Infanta, Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado; 'Tis but to season some such news; stay, stay! I see 'tis only raillery by his smile. Cenci (filling a bowl of wine, and lifting it up). Oh, thou bright wine whose purple splendour leaps And bubbles gaily in this golden bowl Under the lamplight, as my spirits do, To hear the death of my accursd sons! Could I believe thou wert their mingled blood, Then would I taste thee like a sacrament, And pledge with thee the mighty Devil in Hell, Who, if a father's curses, as men say, Climb with swift wings after their children's souls, And drag them from the very throne of Heaven, Now triumphs in my triumph!But thou art Superfluous; I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine to-night. Here, Andrea! Bear the bowl around. A Guest (rising).                    Thou wretch! Will none among this noble company Check the abandoned villain? Camillo.                For God's sake Let me dismiss the guests! You are insane, Some ill will come of this. Second Guest.                Seize, silence him!                First Guest. I will! Third Guest.     And I!     Cenci (addressing those who rise with a threatening gesture).        Who moves? Who speaks?        (turning to the Company)                    'tis nothing Enjoy yourselves.Beware! For my revenge Is as the sealed commission of a king That kills, and none dare name the murderer. [The Banquet is broken up; several of the Guests are departing. Beatrice. I do entreat you, go not, noble guests; What, although tyranny and impious hate Stand sheltered by a father's hoary hair? What, if 'tis he who clothed us in these limbs Who tortures them, and triumphs? What, if we, The desolate and the dead, were his own flesh, His children and his wife, whom he is bound To love and shelter? Shall we therefore find No refuge in this merciless wide world? O think what deep wrongs must have blotted out First love, then reverence in a child's prone mind, Till it thus vanquish shame and fear! O think! I have borne much, and kissed the sacred hand Which crushed us to the earth, and thought its stroke Was perhaps some paternal chastisement! Have excused much, doubted; and when no doubt Remained, have sought by patience, love, and tears To soften him, and when this could not be I have knelt down through the long sleepless nights And lifted up to God, the Father of all, Passionate prayers: and when these were not heard I have still borne,until I meet you here, Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feast Given at my brothers' deaths. Two yet remain, His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not, Ye may soon share such merriment again As fathers make over their children's graves. O Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman, Cardinal, thou art the Pope's chamberlain, Camillo, thou art chief justiciary, Take us away! Cenci. (He has been conversing with Camillo during the first part of Beatrice's speech; he hears the conclusion, and now advances.)        I hope my good friends here Will think of their own daughtersor perhaps Of their own throatsbefore they lend an ear To this wild girl. Beatrice (not noticing the words of Cenci).           Dare no one look on me? None answer? Can one tyrant overbear The sense of many best and wisest men? Or is it that I sue not in some form Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit? O God! That I were buried with my brothers! And that the flowers of this departed spring Were fading on my grave! And that my father Were celebrating now one feast for all! Camillo. A bitter wish for one so young and gentle; Can we do nothing? Colonna.           Nothing that I see. Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy: Yet I would second any one. A Cardinal.                And I.                Cenci. Retire to your chamber, insolent girl! Beatrice. Retire thou, impious man! Ay, hide thyself Where never eye can look upon thee more! Wouldst thou have honour and obedience Who art a torturer? Father, never dream Though thou mayst overbear this company, But ill must come of ill.Frown not on me! Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging looks My brothers' ghosts should hunt thee from thy seat! Cover thy face from every living eye, And start if thou but hear a human step: Seek out some dark and silent corner, there, Bow thy white head before offended God, And we will kneel around, and fervently Pray that he pity both ourselves and thee. Cenci. My friends, I do lament this insane girl Has spoilt the mirth of our festivity. Good night, farewell; I will not make you longer Spectators of our dull domestic quarrels. Another time. [Exeunt all but Cenci and Beatrice.         My brain is swimming round; Give me a bowl of wine! [To Beatrice.             Thou painted viper! Beast that thou art! Fair and yet terrible! I know a charm shall make thee meek and tame, Now get thee from my sight! [Exit Beatrice.                Here, Andrea, Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I said I would not drink this evening; but I must; For, strange to say, I feel my spirits fail With thinking what I have decreed to do. [Drinking the wine. Be thou the resolution of quick youth Within my veins, and manhood's purpose stern, And age's firm, cold, subtle villainy; As if thou wert indeed my children's blood Which I did thirst to drink! The charm works well; It must be done; it shall be done, I swear! [Exit. END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II Scene I. An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Enter Lucretia and Bernardo. Lucretia. Weep not, my gentle boy; he struck but me Who have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, if he Had killed me, he had done a kinder deed. O God, Almighty, do Thou look upon us, We have no other friend but only Thee! Yet weep not; though I love you as my own, I am not your true mother. Bernardo.               O more, more, Than ever mother was to any child, That have you been to me! Had he not been My father, do you think that I should weep! Lucretia. Alas! Poor boy, what else couldst thou have done? Enter Beatrice. Beatrice (in a hurried voice). Did he pass this way? Have you seen him, brother? Ah, no! that is his step upon the stairs; 'Tis nearer now; his hand is on the door; Mother, if I to thee have ever been A duteous child, now save me! Thou, great God, Whose image upon earth a father is, Dost Thou indeed abandon me? He comes; The door is opening now; I see his face; He frowns on others, but he smiles on me, Even as he did after the feast last night. Enter a Servant. Almighty God, how merciful Thou art! 'Tis but Orsino's servant.Well, what news? Servant. My master bids me say, the Holy Father Has sent back your petition thus unopened. [Giving a paper. And he demands at what hour 'twere secure To visit you again? Lucretia.           At the Ave Mary.[Exit Servant. So, daughter, our last hope has failed; Ah me! How pale you look; you tremble, and you stand Wrapped in some fixed and fearful meditation, As if one thought were over strong for you: Your eyes have a chill glare; O, dearest child! Are you gone mad? If not, pray speak to me. Beatrice. You see I am not mad: I speak to you. Lucretia. You talked of something that your father did After that dreadful feast? Could it be worse Than when he smiled, and cried, 'My sons are dead!' And every one looked in his neighbour's face To see if others were as white as he? At the first word he spoke I felt the blood Rush to my heart, and fell into a trance; And when it passed I sat all weak and wild; Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong words Checked his unnatural pride; and I could see The devil was rebuked that lives in him. Until this hour thus have you ever stood Between us and your father's moody wrath Like a protecting presence: your firm mind Has been our only refuge and defence: What can have thus subdued it? What can now Have given you that cold melancholy look, Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear? Beatrice. What is it that you say? I was just thinking 'Twere better not to struggle any more. Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody, Yet neverOh! Before worse comes of it 'Twere wise to die: it ends in that at last. Lucretia. Oh, talk not so, dear child! Tell me at once What did your father do or say to you? He stayed not after that accursd feast One moment in your chamber.Speak to me. Bernardo. Oh, sister, sister, prithee, speak to us! Beatrice (speaking very slowly with a forced calmness). It was one word, Mother, one little word; One look, one smile. (Wildly.) Oh! He has trampled me Under his feet, and made the blood stream down My pallid cheeks. And he has given us all Ditch-water, and the fever-stricken flesh Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve, And we have eaten.He has made me look On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs, And I have never yet despairedbut now! What could I say? [Recovering herself.          Ah, no! 'tis nothing new. The sufferings we all share have made me wild: He only struck and cursed me as he passed; He said, he looked, he did;nothing at all Beyond his wont, yet it disordered me. Alas! I am forgetful of my duty, I should preserve my senses for your sake. Lucretia. Nay, Beatrice; have courage, my sweet girl, If any one despairs it should be I Who loved him once, and now must live with him Till God in pity call for him or me. For you may, like your sister, find some husband, And smile, years hence, with children round your knees; Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coil Shall be remembered only as a dream. Beatrice. Talk not to me, dear lady, of a husband. Did you not nurse me when my mother died? Did you not shield me and that dearest boy? And had we any other friend but you In infancy, with gentle words and looks, To win our father not to murder us? And shall I now desert you? May the ghost Of my dead Mother plead against my soul If I abandon her who filled the place She left, with more, even, than a mother's love! Bernardo. And I am of my sister's mind. Indeed I would not leave you in this wretchedness, Even though the Pope should make me free to live In some blithe place, like others of my age, With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air. Oh, never think that I will leave you, Mother! Lucretia. My dear, dear children! Enter Cenci, suddenly. Cenci.             What, Beatrice here! Come hither! [She shrinks back, and covers her face.       Nay, hide not your face, 'tis fair; Look up! Why, yesternight you dared to look With disobedient insolence upon me, Bending a stern and an inquiring brow On what I meant; whilst I then sought to hide That which I came to tell youbut in vain. Beatrice (wildly, staggering towards the door). O that the earth would gape! Hide me, O God! Cenci. Then it was I whose inarticulate words Fell from my lips, and who with tottering steps Fled from your presence, as you now from mine. Stay, I command youfrom this day and hour Never again, I think, with fearless eye, And brow superior, and unaltered cheek, And that lip made for tenderness or scorn, Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of mankind; Me least of all. Now get thee to thy chamber! Thou too, loathed image of thy cursd mother, [To Bernardo. Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with hate! [Exeunt Beatrice and Bernardo. (Aside.) So much has passed between us as must make Me bold, her fearful.'Tis an awful thing To touch such mischief as I now conceive: So men sit shivering on the dewy bank, And try the chill stream with their feet; once in . . . How the delighted spirit pants for joy! Lucretia (advancing timidly towards him). O husband! Pray forgive poor Beatrice. She meant not any ill. Cenci.             Nor you perhaps? Nor that young imp, whom you have taught by rote Parricide with his alphabet? Nor Giacomo? Nor those two most unnatural sons, who stirred Enmity up against me with the Pope? Whom in one night merciful God cut off: Innocent lambs! They thought not any ill. You were not here conspiring? You said nothing Of how I might be dungeoned as a madman; Or be condemned to death for some offence, And you would be the witnesses?This failing, How just it were to hire assassins, or Put sudden poison in my evening drink? Or smother me when overcome by wine? Seeing we had no other judge but God, And He had sentenced me, and there were none But you to be the executioners Of His decree enregistered in Heaven? Oh, no! You said not this? Lucretia.               So help me God, I never thought the things you charge me with! Cenci. If you dare speak that wicked lie again I'll kill you. What! It was not by your counsel That Beatrice disturbed the feast last night? You did not hope to stir some enemies Against me, and escape, and laugh to scorn What every nerve of you now trembles at? You judged that men were bolder than they are; Few dare to stand between their grave and me. Lucretia. Look not so dreadfully! By my salvation I knew not aught that Beatrice designed; Nor do I think she designed any thing Until she heard you talk of her dead brothers. Cenci. Blaspheming liar! You are damned for this! But I will take you where you may persuade The stones you tread on to deliver you: For men shall there be none but those who dare All thingsnot question that which I command. On Wednesday next I shall set out: you know That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella: 'Tis safely walled, and moated round about: Its dungeons underground, and its thick towers Never told tales; though they have heard and seen What might make dumb things speak.Why do you linger? Make speediest preparation for the journey! [Exit Lucretia. The all-beholding sun yet shines; I hear A busy stir of men about the streets; I see the bright sky through the window panes: It is a garish, broad, and peering day; Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears, And every little corner, nook, and hole Is penetrated with the insolent light. Come darkness! Yet, what is the day to me? And wherefore should I wish for night, who do A deed which shall confound both night and day? 'Tis she shall grope through a bewildering mist Of horror: if there be a sun in heaven She shall not dare to look upon its beams; Nor feel its warmth. Let her then wish for night; The act I think shall soon extinguish all For me: I bear a darker deadlier gloom Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air, Or constellations quenched in murkiest cloud, In which I walk secure and unbeheld Towards my purpose.Would that it were done! [Exit. Scene II. A Chamber in the Vatican. Enter Camillo and Giacomo, in conversation. Camillo. There is an obsolete and doubtful law By which you might obtain a bare provision Of food and clothing Giacomo.             Nothing more? Alas! Bare must be the provision which strict law Awards, and agd, sullen avarice pays. Why did my father not apprentice me To some mechanic trade? I should have then Been trained in no highborn necessities Which I could meet not by my daily toil. The eldest son of a rich nobleman Is heir to all his incapacities; He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you, Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at once From thrice-driven beds of down, and delicate food, An hundred servants, and six palaces, To that which nature doth indeed require? Camillo. Nay, there is reason in your plea; 'twere hard. Giacomo. 'Tis hard for a firm man to bear: but I Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father Without a bond or witness to the deed: And children, who inherit her fine senses, The fairest creatures in this breathing world; And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal, Do you not think the Pope would interpose And stretch authority beyond the law? Camillo. Though your peculiar case is hard, I know The Pope will not divert the course of law. After that impious feast the other night I spoke with him, and urged him then to check Your father's cruel hand; he frowned and said, 'Children are disobedient, and they sting Their fathers' hearts to madness and despair, Requiting years of care with contumely. I pity the Count Cenci from my heart; His outraged love perhaps awakened hate, And thus he is exasperated to ill. In the great war between the old and young I, who have white hairs and a tottering body, Will keep at least blameless neutrality.' Enter Orsino. You, my good Lord Orsino, heard those words. Orsino. What words? Giacomo.       Alas, repeat them not again! There then is no redress for me, at least None but that which I may achieve myself, Since I am driven to the brink.But, say, My innocent sister and my only brother Are dying underneath my father's eye. The memorable torturers of this land, Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin, Never inflicted on the meanest slave What these endure; shall they have no protection? Camillo. Why, if they would petition to the Pope I see not how he could refuse ityet He holds it of most dangerous example In aught to weaken the paternal power, Being, as 'twere, the shadow of his own. I pray you now excuse me. I have business That will not bear delay. [Exit Camillo. Giacomo.               But you, Orsino, Have the petition: wherefore not present it? Orsino. I have presented it, and backed it with My earnest prayers, and urgent interest; It was returned unanswered. I doubt not But that the strange and execrable deeds Alleged in itin truth they might well baffle Any beliefhave turned the Pope's displeasure Upon the accusers from the criminal: So I should guess from what Camillo said. Giacomo. My friend, that palace-walking devil Gold Has whispered silence to his Holiness: And we are left, as scorpions ringed with fire. What should we do but strike ourselves to death? For he who is our murderous persecutor Is shielded by a father's holy name, Or I would [Stops abruptly. Orsino.       What? Fear not to speak your thought. Words are but holy as the deeds they cover: A priest who has forsworn the God he serves; A judge who makes Truth weep at his decree; A friend who should weave counsel, as I now, But as the mantle of some selfish guile; A father who is all a tyrant seems, Were the profaner for his sacred name. Giacomo. Ask me not what I think; the unwilling brain Feigns often what it would not; and we trust Imagination with such phantasies As the tongue dares not fashion into words, Which have no words, their horror makes them dim To the mind's eye.My heart denies itself To think what you demand. Orsino.               But a friend's bosom Is as the inmost cave of our own mind Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of day, And from the all-communicating air. You look what I suspected Giacomo.                Spare me now! I am as one lost in a midnight wood, Who dares not ask some harmless passenger The path across the wilderness, lest he, As my thoughts are, should bea murderer. I know you are my friend, and all I dare Speak to my soul that will I trust with thee. But now my heart is heavy, and would take Lone counsel from a night of sleepless care. Pardon me, that I say farewellfarewell! I would that to my own suspected self I could address a word so full of peace. Orsino. Farewell!Be your thoughts better or more bold. [Exit Giacomo. I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo To feed his hope with cold encouragement: It fortunately serves my close designs That 'tis a trick of this same family To analyse their own and other minds. Such self-anatomy shall teach the will Dangerous secrets: for it tempts our powers, Knowing what must be thought, and may be done, Into the depth of darkest purposes: So Cenci fell into the pit; even I, Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself, And made me shrink from what I cannot shun, Show a poor figure to my own esteem, To which I grow half reconciled. I'll do As little mischief as I can; that thought Shall fee the accuser conscience. (After a pause.)                   Now what harm If Cenci should be murdered?Yet, if murdered, Wherefore by me? And what if I could take The profit, yet omit the sin and peril In such an action? Of all earthly things I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words; And such is Cenci: and while Cenci lives His daughter's dowry were a secret grave If a priest wins her.Oh, fair Beatrice! Would that I loved thee not, or loving thee Could but despise danger and gold and all That frowns between my wish and its effect, Or smiles beyond it! There is no escape . . . Her bright form kneels beside me at the altar, And follows me to the resort of men, And fills my slumber with tumultuous dreams, So when I wake my blood seems liquid fire; And if I strike my damp and dizzy head My hot palm scorches it: her very name, But spoken by a stranger, makes my heart Sicken and pant; and thus unprofitably I clasp the phantom of unfelt delights Till weak imagination half possesses The self-created shadow. Yet much longer Will I not nurse this life of feverous hours: From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo I must work out my own dear purposes. I see, as from a tower, the end of all: Her father dead; her brother bound to me By a dark secret, surer than the grave; Her mother scared and unexpostulating From the dread manner of her wish achieved: And she!Once more take courage, my faint heart; What dares a friendless maiden matched with thee? I have such foresight as assures success: Some unbeheld divinity doth ever, When dread events are near, stir up men's minds To black suggestions; and he prospers best, Not who becomes the instrument of ill, But who can flatter the dark spirit, that makes Its empire and its prey of other hearts Till it become his slave . . . as I will do. [Exit. END OF THE SECOND ACT. ACT III Scene I. An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Lucretia, to her enter Beatrice. Beatrice. (She enters staggering, and speaks wildly.) Reach me that handkerchief!My brain is hurt; My eyes are full of blood; just wipe them for me . . . I see but indistinctly . . . Lucretia.                My sweet child, You have no wound; 'tis only a cold dew That starts from your dear brow . . . Alas! Alas! What has befallen? Beatrice.           How comes this hair undone? Its wandering strings must be what blind me so, And yet I tied it fast.O, horrible! The pavement sinks under my feet! The walls Spin round! I see a woman weeping there, And standing calm and motionless, whilst I Slide giddily as the world reels. . . . My God! The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with blood! The sunshine on the floor is black! The air Is changed to vapours such as the dead breathe In charnel pits! Pah! I am choked! There creeps A clinging, black, contaminating mist About me . . . 'tis substantial, heavy, thick, I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues My fingers and my limbs to one another, And eats into my sinews, and dissolves My flesh to a pollution, poisoning The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life! My God! I never knew what the mad felt Before; for I am mad beyond all doubt! (More wildly.) No, I am dead! These putrefying limbs Shut round and sepulchre the panting soul Which would burst forth into the wandering air! (A pause.) What hideous thought was that I had even now? 'Tis gone; and yet its burthen remains here O'er these dull eyes . . . upon this weary heart! O, world! O, life! O, day! O, misery! Lucretia. What ails thee, my poor child? She answers not: Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain, But not its cause; suffering has dried away The source from which it sprung . . . Beatrice (franticly).                     Like Parricide . . . Misery has killed its father: yet its father Never like mine . . . O, God! What thing am I? Lucretia. My dearest child, what has your father done? Beatrice (doubtfully). Who art thou, questioner? I have no father. (Aside.) She is the madhouse nurse who tends on me, It is a piteous office. [To Lucretia, in a slow, subdued voice.             Do you know I thought I was that wretched Beatrice Men speak of, whom her father sometimes hales From hall to hall by the entangled hair; At others, pens up naked in damp cells Where scaly reptiles crawl, and starves her there, Till she will eat strange flesh. This woful story So did I overact in my sick dreams, That I imagined . . . no, it cannot be! Horrible things have been in this wide world, Prodigious mixtures, and confusions strange Of good and ill; and worse have been conceived Than ever there was found a heart to do. But never fancy imaged such a deed As . . . [Pauses, suddenly recollecting herself.     Who art thou? Swear to me, ere I die With fearful expectation, that indeed Thou art not what thou seemest . . . Mother! Lucretia.                         Oh! My sweet child, know you . . . Beatrice.                 Yet speak it not: For then if this be truth, that other too Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth, Linked with each lasting circumstance of life, Never to change, never to pass away. Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace; Thou art Lucretia; I am Beatrice. I have talked some wild words, but will no more. Mother, come near me: from this point of time, I am . . . [Her voice dies away faintly. Lucretia.      Alas! What has befallen thee, child? What has thy father done? Beatrice.               What have I done? Am I not innocent? Is it my crime That one with white hair, and imperious brow, Who tortured me from my forgotten years, As parents only dare, should call himself My father, yet should be!Oh, what am I? What name, what place, what memory shall be mine? What retrospects, outliving even despair? Lucretia. He is a violent tyrant, surely, child: We know that death alone can make us free; His death or ours. But what can he have done Of deadlier outrage or worse injury? Thou art unlike thyself; thine eyes shoot forth A wandering and strange spirit. Speak to me, Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers twine With one another. Beatrice.          'Tis the restless life Tortured within them. If I try to speak I shall go mad. Ay, something must be done; What, yet I know not . . . something which shall make The thing that I have suffered but a shadow In the dread lightning which avenges it; Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying The consequence of what it cannot cure. Some such thing is to be endured or done: When I know what, I shall be still and calm, And never anything will move me more. But now!O blood, which art my father's blood, Circling through these contaminated veins, If thou, poured forth on the polluted earth, Could wash away the crime, and punishment By which I suffer . . . no, that cannot be! Many might doubt there were a God above Who sees and permits evil, and so die: That faith no agony shall obscure in me. Lucretia. It must indeed have been some bitter wrong; Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost child, Hide not in proud impenetrable grief Thy sufferings from my fear. Beatrice.                I hide them not. What are the words which you would have me speak? I, who can feign no image in my mind Of that which has transformed me: I, whose thought Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up In its own formless horror: of all words, That minister to mortal intercourse, Which wouldst thou hear? For there is none to tell My misery: if another ever knew Aught like to it, she died as I will die, And left it, as I must, without a name. Death! Death! Our law and our religion call thee A punishment and a reward . . . Oh, which Have I deserved? Lucretia.          The peace of innocence; Till in your season you be called to heaven. Whate'er you may have suffered, you have done No evil. Death must be the punishment Of crime, or the reward of trampling down The thorns which God has strewed upon the path Which leads to immortality. Beatrice.                Ay; death . . . The punishment of crime. I pray thee, God, Let me not be bewildered while I judge. If I must live day after day, and keep These limbs, the unworthy temple of Thy spirit, As a foul den from which what Thou abhorrest May mock Thee, unavenged . . . it shall not be! Self-murder . . . no, that might be no escape, For Thy decree yawns like a Hell between Our will and it:O! In this mortal world There is no vindication and no law Which can adjudge and execute the doom Of that through which I suffer. Enter Orsino. (She approaches him solemnly.)                  Welcome, Friend! I have to tell you that, since last we met, I have endured a wrong so great and strange, That neither life nor death can give me rest. Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue. Orsino. And what is he who has thus injured you? Beatrice. The man they call my father: a dread name. Orsino. It cannot be . . . Beatrice.           What it can be, or not, Forbear to think. It is, and it has been; Advise me how it shall not be again. I thought to die; but a religious awe Restrains me, and the dread lest death itself Might be no refuge from the consciousness Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak! Orsino. Accuse him of the deed, and let the law Avenge thee. Beatrice.       Oh, ice-hearted counsellor! If I could find a word that might make known The crime of my destroyer; and that done, My tongue should like a knife tear out the secret Which cankers my heart's core; ay, lay all bare So that my unpolluted fame should be With vilest gossips a stale mouthd story; A mock, a byword, an astonishment: If this were done, which never shall be done, Think of the offender's gold, his dreaded hate, And the strange horror of the accuser's tale, Baffling belief, and overpowering speech; Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapped In hideous hints . . . Oh, most assured redress! Orsino. You will endure it then? Beatrice.              Endure?Orsino, It seems your counsel is small profit. [Turns from him, and speaks half to herself.                      Ay, All must be suddenly resolved and done. What is this undistinguishable mist Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after shadow, Darkening each other? Orsino.            Should the offender live? Triumph in his misdeed? and make, by use, His crime, whate'er it is, dreadful no doubt, Thine element; until thou mayst become Utterly lost; subdued even to the hue Of that which thou permittest? Beatrice (to herself).                 Mighty death! Thou double-visaged shadow? Only judge! Rightfullest arbiter! [She retires absorbed in thought. Lucretia.            If the lightning Of God has e'er descended to avenge . . . Orsino. Blaspheme not! His high Providence commits Its glory on this earth, and their own wrongs Into the hands of men; if they neglect To punish crime . . . Lucretia.            But if one, like this wretch, Should mock, with gold, opinion, law, and power? If there be no appeal to that which makes The guiltiest tremble? If because our wrongs, For that they are unnatural, strange, and monstrous, Exceed all measure of belief? O God! If, for the very reasons which should make Redress most swift and sure, our injurer triumphs? And we, the victims, bear worse punishment Than that appointed for their torturer? Orsino.                      Think not But that there is redress where there is wrong, So we be bold enough to seize it. Lucretia.                   How? If there were any way to make all sure, I know not . . . but I think it might be good To . . . Orsino.     Why, his late outrage to Beatrice; For it is such, as I but faintly guess, As makes remorse dishonour, and leaves her Only one duty, how she may avenge: You, but one refuge from ills ill endured; Me, but one counsel . . . Lucretia.               For we cannot hope That aid, or retribution, or resource Will arise thence, where every other one Might find them with less need. [Beatrice advances. Orsino.                  Then . . .                  Beatrice.                       Peace, Orsino! And, honoured Lady, while I speak, I pray, That you put off, as garments overworn, Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear, And all the fit restraints of daily life, Which have been borne from childhood, but which now Would be a mockery to my holier plea. As I have said, I have endured a wrong, Which, though it be expressionless, is such As asks atonement; both for what is past, And lest I be reserved, day after day, To load with crimes an overburthened soul, And be . . . what ye can dream not. I have prayed To God, and I have talked with my own heart, And have unravelled my entangled will, And have at length determined what is right. Art thou my friend, Orsino? False or true? Pledge thy salvation ere I speak. Orsino.                   I swear To dedicate my cunning, and my strength, My silence, and whatever else is mine, To thy commands. Lucretia.          You think we should devise His death? Beatrice.      And execute what is devised, And suddenly. We must be brief and bold. Orsino. And yet most cautious. Lucretia.             For the jealous laws Would punish us with death and infamy For that which it became themselves to do. Beatrice. Be cautious as ye may, but prompt. Orsino, What are the means? Orsino.           I know two dull, fierce outlaws, Who think man's spirit as a worm's, and they Would trample out, for any slight caprice, The meanest or the noblest life. This mood Is marketable here in Rome. They sell What we now want. Lucretia.          To-morrow before dawn, Cenci will take us to that lonely rock, Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines. If he arrive there . . . Beatrice.              He must not arrive.              Orsino. Will it be dark before you reach the tower? Lucretia. The sun will scarce be set. Beatrice.                But I remember Two miles on this side of the fort, the road Crosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow, And winds with short turns down the precipice; And in its depth there is a mighty rock, Which has, from unimaginable years, Sustained itself with terror and with toil Over a gulf, and with the agony With which it clings seems slowly coming down; Even as a wretched soul hour after hour, Clings to the mass of life; yet clinging, leans; And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss In which it fears to fall: beneath this crag Huge as despair, as if in weariness, The melancholy mountain yawns . . . below, You hear but see not an impetuous torrent Raging among the caverns, and a bridge Crosses the chasm; and high above there grow, With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag, Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hair Is matted in one solid roof of shade By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here 'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night. Orsino. Before you reach that bridge make some excuse For spurring on your mules, or loitering Until . . . Beatrice.       What sound is that?       Lucretia. Hark! No, it cannot be a servant's step It must be Cenci, unexpectedly Returned . . . Make some excuse for being here. Beatrice. (To Orsino, as she goes out.) That step we hear approach must never pass The bridge of which we spoke. [Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice. Orsino.                 What shall I do? Cenci must find me here, and I must bear The imperious inquisition of his looks As to what brought me hither: let me mask Mine own in some inane and vacant smile. Enter Giacomo, in a hurried manner. How! Have you ventured hither? Know you then That Cenci is from home? Giacomo.              I sought him here; And now must wait till he returns. Orsino.                   Great God! Weigh you the danger of this rashness? Giacomo.                      Ay! Does my destroyer know his danger? We Are now no more, as once, parent and child, But man to man; the oppressor to the oppressed; The slanderer to the slandered; foe to foe: He has cast Nature off, which was his shield, And Nature casts him off, who is her shame; And I spurn both. Is it a father's throat Which I will shake, and say, I ask not gold; I ask not happy years; nor memories Of tranquil childhood; nor home-sheltered love; Though all these hast thou torn from me, and more; But only my fair fame; only one hoard Of peace, which I thought hidden from thy hate, Under the penury heaped on me by thee, Or I will . . . God can understand and pardon, Why should I speak with man? Orsino.                Be calm, dear friend.                Giacomo. Well, I will calmly tell you what he did. This old Francesco Cenci, as you know, Borrowed the dowry of my wife from me, And then denied the loan; and left me so In poverty, the which I sought to mend By holding a poor office in the state. It had been promised to me, and already I bought new clothing for my raggd babes, And my wife smiled; and my heart knew repose. When Cenci's intercession, as I found, Conferred this office on a wretch, whom thus He paid for vilest service. I returned With this ill news, and we sate sad together Solacing our despondency with tears Of such affection and unbroken faith As temper life's worst bitterness; when he, As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse, Mocking our poverty, and telling us Such was God's scourge for disobedient sons. And then, that I might strike him dumb with shame, I spoke of my wife's dowry; but he coined A brief yet specious tale, how I had wasted The sum in secret riot; and he saw My wife was touched, and he went smiling forth. And when I knew the impression he had made, And felt my wife insult with silent scorn My ardent truth, and look averse and cold, I went forth too: but soon returned again; Yet not so soon but that my wife had taught My children her harsh thoughts, and they all cried, 'Give us clothes, father! Give us better food! What you in one night squander were enough For months!' I looked, and saw that home was hell. And to that hell will I return no more Until mine enemy has rendered up Atonement, or, as he gave life to me I will, reversing Nature's law . . . Orsino.                     Trust me, The compensation which thou seekest here Will be denied. Giacomo.         Then . . . Are you not my friend? Did you not hint at the alternative, Upon the brink of which you see I stand, The other day when we conversed together? My wrongs were then less. That word parricide, Although I am resolved, haunts me like fear. Orsino. It must be fear itself, for the bare word Is hollow mockery. Mark, how wisest God Draws to one point the threads of a just doom, So sanctifying it: what you devise Is, as it were, accomplished. Giacomo.                 Is he dead?                 Orsino. His grave is ready. Know that since we met Cenci has done an outrage to his daughter. Giacomo. What outrage? Orsino.        That she speaks not, but you may Conceive such half conjectures as I do, From her fixed paleness, and the lofty grief Of her stern brow bent on the idle air, And her severe unmodulated voice, Drowning both tenderness and dread; and last From this; that whilst her step-mother and I, Bewildered in our horror, talked together With obscure hints; both self-misunderstood And darkly guessing, stumbling, in our talk, Over the truth, and yet to its revenge, She interrupted us, and with a look Which told before she spoke it, he must die: . . . Giacomo. It is enough. My doubts are well appeased; There is a higher reason for the act Than mine; there is a holier judge than me, A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice, Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youth Hast never trodden on a worm, or bruised A living flower, but thou hast pitied it With needless tears! Fair sister, thou in whom Men wondered how such loveliness and wisdom Did not destroy each other! Is there made Ravage of thee? O, heart, I ask no more Justification! Shall I wait, Orsino, Till he return, and stab him at the door? Orsino. Not so; some accident might interpose To rescue him from what is now most sure; And you are unprovided where to fly, How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, listen: All is contrived; success is so assured That . . . Enter Beatrice. Beatrice.      'Tis my brother's voice! You know me not?      Giacomo. My sister, my lost sister! Beatrice.               Lost indeed! I see Orsino has talked with you, and That you conjecture things too horrible To speak, yet far less than the truth. Now, stay not, He might return: yet kiss me; I shall know That then thou hast consented to his death. Farewell, farewell! Let piety to God, Brotherly love, justice and clemency, And all things that make tender hardest hearts Make thine hard, brother. Answer not . . . farewell. [Exeunt severally. Scene II. A mean Apartment in Giacomo's House. Giacomo alone. Giacomo. 'Tis midnight, and Orsino comes not yet. [Thunder, and the sound of a storm. What! can the everlasting elements Feel with a worm like man? If so, the shaft Of mercy-wingd lightning would not fall On stones and trees. My wife and children sleep: They are now living in unmeaning dreams: But I must wake, still doubting if that deed Be just which is most necessary. O, Thou unreplenished lamp! whose narrow fire Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge Devouring darkness hovers! Thou small flame, Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls, Still flickerest up and down, how very soon, Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail and be As thou hadst never been! So wastes and sinks Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine: But that no power can fill with vital oil That broken lamp of flesh. Ha! 'tis the blood Which fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold: It is the form that moulded mine that sinks Into the white and yellow spasms of death: It is the soul by which mine was arrayed In God's immortal likeness which now stands Naked before Heaven's judgement seat! [A bell strikes.                     One! Two! The hours crawl on; and when my hairs are white, My son will then perhaps be waiting thus, Tortured between just hate and vain remorse; Chiding the tardy messenger of news Like those which I expect. I almost wish He be not dead, although my wrongs are great; Yet . . . 'tis Orsino's step . . . Enter Orsino.                   Speak!                   Orsino.                       I am come To say he has escaped. Giacomo.             Escaped!             Orsino.                 And safe Within Petrella. He passed by the spot Appointed for the deed an hour too soon. Giacomo. Are we the fools of such contingencies? And do we waste in blind misgivings thus The hours when we should act? Then wind and thunder, Which seemed to howl his knell, is the loud laughter With which Heaven mocks our weakness! I henceforth Will ne'er repent of aught designed or done But my repentance. Orsino.           See, the lamp is out.           Giacomo. If no remorse is ours when the dim air Has drank this innocent flame, why should we quail When Cenci's life, that light by which ill spirits See the worst deeds they prompt, shall sink for ever? No, I am hardened. Orsino.           Why, what need of this? Who feared the pale intrusion of remorse In a just deed? Although our first plan failed, Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest. But light the lamp; let us not talk i' the dark. Giacomo (lighting the lamp). And yet once quenched I cannot thus relume My father's life: do you not think his ghost Might plead that argument with God? Orsino.                    Once gone You cannot now recall your sister's peace; Your own extinguished years of youth and hope; Nor your wife's bitter words; nor all the taunts Which, from the prosperous, weak misfortune takes; Nor your dead mother; nor . . . Giacomo.                  O, speak no more! I am resolved, although this very hand Must quench the life that animated it. Orsino. There is no need of that. Listen: you know Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella In old Colonna's time; him whom your father Degraded from his post? And Marzio, That desperate wretch, whom he deprived last year Of a reward of blood, well earned and due? Giacomo. I knew Olimpio; and they say he hated Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage His lips grew white only to see him pass. Of Marzio I know nothing. Orsino.               Marzio's hate Matches Olimpio's. I have sent these men, But in your name, and as at your request, To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia. Giacomo. Only to talk? Orsino.        The moments which even now Pass onward to to-morrow's midnight hour May memorize their flight with death: ere then They must have talked, and may perhaps have done, And made an end . . . Giacomo.            Listen! What sound is that?            Orsino. The house-dog moans, and the beams crack: nought else. Giacomo. It is my wife complaining in her sleep: I doubt not she is saying bitter things Of me; and all my children round her dreaming That I deny them sustenance. Orsino.                Whilst he Who truly took it from them, and who fills Their hungry rest with bitterness, now sleeps Lapped in bad pleasures, and triumphantly Mocks thee in visions of successful hate Too like the truth of day. Giacomo.               If e'er he wakes Again, I will not trust to hireling hands . . . Orsino. Why, that were well. I must be gone; good-night. When next we meetmay all be done! Giacomo.                    And all Forgotten: Oh, that I had never been! [Exeunt. END OF THE THIRD ACT. ACT IV Scene I. An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella. Enter Cenci. Cenci. She comes not; yet I left her even now Vanquished and faint. She knows the penalty Of her delay: yet what if threats are vain? Am I not now within Petrella's moat? Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome? Might I not drag her by the golden hair? Stamp on her? Keep her sleepless till her brain Be overworn? Tame her with chains and famine? Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undone What I most seek! No, 'tis her stubborn will Which by its own consent shall stoop as low As that which drags it down. Enter Lucretia.                Thou loathd wretch! Hide thee from my abhorrence: fly, begone! Yet stay! Bid Beatrice come hither. Lucretia.                    Oh, Husband! I pray for thine own wretched sake Heed what thou dost. A man who walks like thee Through crimes, and through the danger of his crimes, Each hour may stumble o'er a sudden grave. And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary gray; As thou wouldst save thyself from death and hell, Pity thy daughter; give her to some friend In marriage: so that she may tempt thee not To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse there be. Cenci. What! like her sister who has found a home To mock my hate from with prosperity? Strange ruin shall destroy both her and thee And all that yet remain. My death may be Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go, Bid her come hither, and before my mood Be changed, lest I should drag her by the hair. Lucretia. She sent me to thee, husband. At thy presence She fell, as thou dost know, into a trance; And in that trance she heard a voice which said, 'Cenci must die! Let him confess himself! Even now the accusing Angel waits to hear If God, to punish his enormous crimes, Harden his dying heart!' Cenci.              Whysuch things are . . . No doubt divine revealings may be made. 'Tis plain I have been favoured from above, For when I cursed my sons they died.Ay . . . so . . . As to the right or wrong, that's talk . . . repentance . . . Repentance is an easy moment's work And more depends on God than me. Well . . . well . . . I must give up the greater point, which was To poison and corrupt her soul. [A pause; Lucretia approaches anxiously, and then shrinks back as he speaks.                  One, two; Ay . . . Rocco and Cristofano my curse Strangled: and Giacomo, I think, will find Life a worse Hell than that beyond the grave: Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate, Die in despair, blaspheming: to Bernardo, He is so innocent, I will bequeath The memory of these deeds, and make his youth The sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughts Shall grow like weeds on a neglected tomb. When all is done, out in the wide Campagna, I will pile up my silver and my gold; My costly robes, paintings and tapestries; My parchments and all records of my wealth, And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave Of my possessions nothing but my name; Which shall be an inheritance to strip Its wearer bare as infamy. That done, My soul, which is a scourge, will I resign Into the hands of him who wielded it; Be it for its own punishment or theirs, He will not ask it of me till the lash Be broken in its last and deepest wound; Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me make Short work and sure . . . [Going. Lucretia. (Stops him.)               Oh, stay! It was a feint: She had no vision, and she heard no voice. I said it but to awe thee. Cenci.               That is well. Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God, Be thy soul choked with that blaspheming lie! For Beatrice worse terrors are in store To bend her to my will. Lucretia.             Oh! to what will? What cruel sufferings more than she has known Canst thou inflict? Cenci.           Andrea! Go call my daughter, And if she comes not tell her that I come. What sufferings? I will drag her, step by step, Through infamies unheard of among men: She shall stand shelterless in the broad noon Of public scorn, for acts blazoned abroad, One among which shall be . . . What? Canst thou guess? She shall become (for what she most abhors Shall have a fascination to entrap Her loathing will) to her own conscious self All she appears to others; and when dead, As she shall die unshrived and unforgiven, A rebel to her father and her God, Her corpse shall be abandoned to the hounds; Her name shall be the terror of the earth; Her spirit shall approach the throne of God Plague-spotted with my curses. I will make Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin. Enter Andrea. Andrea. The Lady Beatrice . . . Cenci.             Speak, pale slave! What Said she? Andrea.      My Lord, 'twas what she looked; she said: 'Go tell my father that I see the gulf Of Hell between us two, which he may pass, I will not.' [Exit Andrea. Cenci.       Go thou quick, Lucretia, Tell her to come; yet let her understand Her coming is consent: and say, moreover, That if she come not I will curse her. [Exit Lucretia.                      Ha! With what but with a father's curse doth God Panic-strike armd victory, and make pale Cities in their prosperity? The world's Father Must grant a parent's prayer against his child, Be he who asks even what men call me. Will not the deaths of her rebellious brothers Awe her before I speak? For I on them Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. Enter Lucretia. Well; what? Speak, wretch! Lucretia.               She said, 'I cannot come; Go tell my father that I see a torrent Of his own blood raging between us.' Cenci (kneeling).                     God! Hear me! If this most specious mass of flesh, Which Thou hast made my daughter; this my blood, This particle of my divided being; Or rather, this my bane and my disease, Whose sight infects and poisons me; this devil Which sprung from me as from a hell, was meant To aught good use; if her bright loveliness Was kindled to illumine this dark world; If nursed by Thy selectest dew of love Such virtues blossom in her as should make The peace of life, I pray Thee for my sake, As Thou the common God and Father art Of her, and me, and all; reverse that doom! Earth, in the name of God, let her food be Poison, until she be encrusted round With leprous stains! Heaven, rain upon her head The blistering drops of the Maremma's dew, Till she be speckled like a toad; parch up Those love-enkindled lips, warp those fine limbs To loathd lameness! All-beholding sun, Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyes With thine own blinding beams! Lucretia.                 Peace! Peace! For thine own sake unsay those dreadful words. When high God grants He punishes such prayers. Cenci (leaping up, and throwing his right hand towards Heaven). He does His will, I mine! This in addition, That if she have a child . . . Lucretia.                 Horrible thought!                 Cenci. That if she ever have a child; and thou, Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy God, That thou be fruitful in her, and increase And multiply, fulfilling his command, And my deep imprecation! May it be A hideous likeness of herself, that as From a distorting mirror, she may see Her image mixed with what she most abhors, Smiling upon her from her nursing breast. And that the child may from its infancy Grow, day by day, more wicked and deformed, Turning her mother's love to misery: And that both she and it may live until It shall repay her care and pain with hate, Or what may else be more unnatural. So he may hunt her through the clamorous scoffs Of the loud world to a dishonoured grave. Shall I revoke this curse? Go, bid her come, Before my words are chronicled in Heaven. [Exit Lucretia. I do not feel as if I were a man, But like a fiend appointed to chastise The offences of some unremembered world. My blood is running up and down my veins; A fearful pleasure makes it prick and tingle: I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe; My heart is beating with an expectation Of horrid joy. Enter Lucretia.        What? Speak!        Lucretia.               She bids thee curse; And if thy curses, as they cannot do, Could kill her soul . . . Cenci.               She would not come. 'Tis well, I can do both: first take what I demand, And then extort concession. To thy chamber! Fly ere I spurn thee: and beware this night That thou cross not my footsteps. It were safer To come between the tiger and his prey.[Exit Lucretia. It must be late; mine eyes grow weary dim With unaccustomed heaviness of sleep. Conscience! Oh, thou most insolent of lies! They say that sleep, that healing dew of Heaven, Steeps not in balm the foldings of the brain Which thinks thee an impostor. I will go First to belie thee with an hour of rest, Which will be deep and calm, I feel: and then . . . O, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will shake. Thine arches with the laughter of their joy! There shall be lamentation heard in Heaven As o'er an angel fallen; and upon Earth All good shall droop and sicken, and ill things Shall with a spirit of unnatural life Stir and be quickened . . . even as I am now. [Exit. Scene II. Before the Castle of Petrella. Enter Beatrice andLucretia above on the Ramparts. Beatrice. They come not yet. Lucretia.           'Tis scarce midnight.           Beatrice.                      How slow Behind the course of thought, even sick with speed, Lags leaden-footed time! Lucretia.              The minutes pass . . . If he should wake before the deed is done? Beatrice. O, mother! He must never wake again. What thou hast said persuades me that our act Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell Out of a human form. Lucretia.            'Tis true he spoke Of death and judgement with strange confidence For one so wicked; as a man believing In God, yet recking not of good or ill. And yet to die without confession! . . . Beatrice.                       Oh! Believe that Heaven is merciful and just, And will not add our dread necessity To the amount of his offences. Enter Olimpio and Marzio, below. Lucretia.                 See, They come. Beatrice.      All mortal things must hasten thus To their dark end. Let us go down. [Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice from above. Olimpio. How feel you to this work? Marzio.               As one who thinks A thousand crowns excellent market price For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks are pale. Olimpio. It is the white reflection of your own, Which you call pale. Marzio.            Is that their natural hue?            Olimpio. Or 'tis my hate and the deferred desire To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood. Marzio. You are inclined then to this business? Olimpio.                      Ay. If one should bribe me with a thousand crowns To kill a serpent which had stung my child, I could not be more willing. Enter Beatrice and Lucretia, below.                Noble ladies!                Beatrice. Are ye resolved? Olimpio.          Is he asleep?          Marzio.                 Is all Quiet? Lucretia.    I mixed an opiate with his drink: He sleeps so soundly . . . Beatrice.               That his death will be But as a change of sin-chastising dreams, A dark continuance of the Hell within him, Which God extinguish! But ye are resolved? Ye know it is a high and holy deed? Olimpio. We are resolved. Marzio.          As to the how this act Be warranted, it rests with you. Beatrice.                  Well, follow!                  Olimpio. Hush! Hark! What noise is that? Marzio.                  Ha! some one comes!                  Beatrice. Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, Which ye left open, swinging to the wind, That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, follow! And be your steps like mine, light, quick and bold. [Exeunt. Scene III. An Apartment in the Castle. Enter Beatrice and Lucretia. Lucretia. They are about it now. Beatrice.             Nay, it is done.             Lucretia. I have not heard him groan. Beatrice.                He will not groan.                Lucretia. What sound is that? Beatrice.           List! 'tis the tread of feet About his bed. Lucretia.        My God! If he be now a cold stiff corpse . . . Beatrice.                      O, fear not What may be done, but what is left undone: The act seals all. Enter Olimpio and Marzio.           Is it accomplished?           Marzio.                     What?                     Olimpio. Did you not call? Beatrice.          When?          Olimpio.             Now.             Beatrice.               I ask if all is over?               Olimpio. We dare not kill an old and sleeping man; His thin gray hair, his stern and reverend brow, His veind hands crossed on his heaving breast, And the calm innocent sleep in which he lay, Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do it. Marzio. But I was bolder; for I chid Olimpio, And bade him bear his wrongs to his own grave And leave me the reward. And now my knife Touched the loose wrinkled throat, when the old man Stirred in his sleep, and said, 'God! hear, O, hear, A father's curse! What, art Thou not our Father?' And then he laughed. I knew it was the ghost Of my dead father speaking through his lips, And could not kill him. Beatrice.             Miserable slaves! Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man, Found ye the boldness to return to me With such a deed undone? Base palterers! Cowards and traitors! Why, the very conscience Which ye would sell for gold and for revenge Is an equivocation: it sleeps over A thousand daily acts disgracing men; And when a deed where mercy insults Heaven . . . Why do I talk? [Snatching a dagger from one of them and raising it.        Hadst thou a tongue to say, 'She murdered her own father!'I must do it! But never dream ye shall outlive him long! Olimpio. Stop, for God's sake! Marzio.            I will go back and kill him.            Olimpio. Give me the weapon. we must do thy will. Beatrice. Take it! Depart! Return! [Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio.              How pale thou art! We do but that which 'twere a deadly crime To leave undone. Lucretia.          Would it were done!          Beatrice.                    Even whilst That doubt is passing through your mind, the world Is conscious of a change. Darkness and Hell Have swallowed up the vapour they sent forth To blacken the sweet light of life. My breath Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied blood Runs freely through my veins. Hark! Enter Olimpio and Marzio.                    He is . . .                    Olimpio.                          Dead!                          Marzio. We strangled him that there might be no blood; And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the garden Under the balcony; 'twill seem it fell. Beatrice (giving them a bag of coin). Here, take this gold, and hasten to your homes. And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed By that which made me tremble, wear thou this! [Clothes him in a rich mantle. It was the mantle which my grandfather Wore in his high prosperity, and men Envied his state: so may they envy thine. Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God To a just use. Live long and thrive! And, mark, If thou hast crimes, repent: this deed is none. [A horn is sounded. Lucretia. Hark, 'tis the castle horn; my God! it sounds Like the last trump. Beatrice            Some tedious guest is coming.            Lucretia. The drawbridge is let down; there is a tramp Of horses in the court; fly, hide yourselves! [Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio. Beatrice. Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest; I scarcely need to counterfeit it now: The spirit which doth reign within these limbs Seems strangely undisturbed. I could even sleep Fearless and calm: all ill is surely past. [Exeunt. Scene IV. Another Apartment in the Castle. Enter on one side the Legate Savella, introduced by a Servant, and on the other Lucretia and Bernardo. Savella. Lady, my duty to his Holiness Be my excuse that thus unseasonably I break upon your rest. I must speak with Count Cenci; doth he sleep? Lucretia (in a hurried and confused manner).                I think he sleeps; Yet wake him not, I pray, spare me awhile, He is a wicked and a wrathful man; Should he be roused out of his sleep to-night, Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams, It were not well; indeed it were not well. Wait till day break . . . (aside) O, I am deadly sick! Savella. I grieve thus to distress you, but the Count Must answer charges of the gravest import, And suddenly; such my commission is. Lucretia (with increased agitation). I dare not rouse him: I know none who dare . . . 'Twere perilous; . . . you might as safely waken A serpent; or a corpse in which some fiend Were laid to sleep. Savella.           Lady, my moments here Are counted. I must rouse him from his sleep, Since none else dare. Lucretia (aside).            O, terror! O, despair! (To Bernardo.) Bernardo, conduct you the Lord Legate to Your father's chamber. [Exeunt Savella and Bernardo. Enter Beatrice. Beatrice.             'Tis a messenger Come to arrest the culprit who now stands Before the throne of unappealable God. Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbiters, Acquit our deed. Lucretia.          Oh, agony of fear! Would that he yet might live! Even now I heard The Legate's followers whisper as they passed They had a warrant for his instant death. All was prepared by unforbidden means Which we must pay so dearly, having done. Even now they search the tower, and find the body; Now they suspect the truth; now they consult Before they come to tax us with the fact; O, horrible, 'tis all discovered! Beatrice.                   Mother, What is done wisely, is done well. Be bold As thou art just. 'Tis like a truant child To fear that others know what thou hast done, Even from thine own strong consciousness, and thus Write on unsteady eyes and altered cheeks All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to thyself, And fear no other witness but thy fear. For if, as cannot be, some circumstance Should rise in accusation, we can blind Suspicion with such cheap astonishment, Or overbear it with such guiltless pride, As murderers cannot feign. The deed is done, And what may follow now regards not me. I am as universal as the light; Free as the earth-surrounding air; as firm As the world's centre. Consequence, to me, Is as the wind which strikes the solid rock But shakes it not. [A cry within and tumult. Voices.           Murder! Murder! Murder!           Enter Bernardo and Savella. Savella (to his followers). Go search the castle round; sound the alarm; Look to the gates that none escape! Beatrice.                    What now?                    Bernardo. I know not what to say . . . my father's dead. Beatrice. How; dead! he only sleeps; you mistake, brother. His sleep is very calm, very like death; 'Tis wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps. He is not dead? Bernardo.         Dead; murdered.         Lucretia (with extreme agitation).                 Oh no, no He is not murdered though he may be dead; I have alone the keys of those apartments. Savella. Ha! Is it so? Beatrice.        My Lord, I pray excuse us; We will retire; my mother is not well: She seems quite overcome with this strange horror. [Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice. Savella. Can you suspect who may have murdered him? Bernardo. I know not what to think. Savella.               Can you name any Who had an interest in his death? Bernardo.                   Alas! I can name none who had not, and those most Who most lament that such a deed is done; My mother, and my sister, and myself. Savella. 'Tis strange! There were clear marks of violence. I found the old man's body in the moonlight Hanging beneath the window of his chamber, Among the branches of a pine: he could not Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay heaped And effortless; 'tis true there was no blood . . . Favour me, Sir; it much imports your house That all should be made clear; to tell the ladies That I request their presence. [Exit Bernardo. Enter Guards bringing in Marzio. Guard.                 We have one.                 Officer. My Lord, we found this ruffian and another Lurking among the rocks; there is no doubt But that they are the murderers of Count Cenci: Each had a bag of coin; this fellow wore A gold-inwoven robe, which shining bright Under the dark rocks to the glimmering moon Betrayed them to our notice: the other fell Desperately fighting. Savella.            What does he confess?            Officer. He keeps firm silence; but these lines found on him May speak. Savella.      Their language is at least sincere.      [Reads. 'To the Lady Beatrice. 'That the atonement of what my nature sickens to conjecture may soon arrive, I send thee, at thy brother's desire, those who will speak and do more than I dare write. . . 'Thy devoted servant, Orsino.' Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Bernardo. Knowest thou this writing, Lady? Beatrice.                  No.                  Savella.                    Nor thou?                    Lucretia. (Her conduct throughout the scene is marked by extreme agitation.) Where was it found? What is it? It should be Orsino's hand! It speaks of that strange horror Which never yet found utterance, but which made Between that hapless child and her dead father A gulf of obscure hatred. Savella.               Is it so? Is it true, Lady, that thy father did Such outrages as to awaken in thee Unfilial hate? Beatrice.        Not hate, 'twas more than hate: This is most true, yet wherefore question me? Savella. There is a deed demanding question done; Thou hast a secret which will answer not. Beatrice. What sayest? My Lord, your words are bold and rash. Savella. I do arrest all present in the name Of the Pope's Holiness. You must to Rome. Lucretia. O, not to Rome! Indeed we are not guilty. Beatrice. Guilty! Who dares talk of guilt? My Lord, I am more innocent of parricide Than is a child born fatherless . . . Dear mother, Your gentleness and patience are no shield For this keen-judging world, this two-edged lie, Which seems, but is not. What! will human laws, Rather will ye who are their ministers, Bar all access to retribution first, And then, when Heaven doth interpose to do What ye neglect, arming familiar things To the redress of an unwonted crime, Make ye the victims who demanded it Culprits? 'Tis ye are culprits! That poor wretch Who stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed, If it be true he murdered Cenci, was A sword in the right hand of justest God. Wherefore should I have wielded it? Unless The crimes which mortal tongue dare never name God therefore scruples to avenge. Savella.                   You own That you desired his death? Beatrice.                It would have been A crime no less than his, if for one moment That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 'Tis true I did believe, and hope, and pray, Ay, I even knew . . . for God is wise and just, That some strange sudden death hung over him. 'Tis true that this did happen, and most true There was no other rest for me on earth, No other hope in Heaven . . . now what of this? Savella. Strange thoughts beget strange deeds; and here are both: I judge thee not. Beatrice.          And yet, if you arrest me, You are the judge and executioner Of that which is the life of life: the breath Of accusation kills an innocent name, And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life Which is a mask without it. 'Tis most false That I am guilty of foul parricide; Although I must rejoice, for justest cause, That other hands have sent my father's soul To ask the mercy he denied to me. Now leave us free; stain not a noble house With vague surmises of rejected crime; Add to our sufferings and your own neglect No heavier sum: let them have been enough: Leave us the wreck we have. Savella.                I dare not, Lady. I pray that you prepare yourselves for Rome: There the Pope's further pleasure will be known. Lucretia. O, not to Rome! O, take us not to Rome! Beatrice. Why not to Rome, dear mother? There as here Our innocence is as an armd heel To trample accusation. God is there As here, and with His shadow ever clothes The innocent, the injured and the weak; And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, lean On me; collect your wandering thoughts. My Lord, As soon as you have taken some refreshment, And had all such examinations made Upon the spot, as may be necessary To the full understanding of this matter, We shall be ready. Mother; will you come? Lucretia. Ha! they will bind us to the rack, and wrest Self-accusation from our agony! Will Giacomo be there? Orsino? Marzio? All present; all confronted; all demanding Each from the other's countenance the thing Which is in every heart! O, misery! [She faints, and is borne out. Savella. She faints: an ill appearance this. Beatrice.                    My Lord, She knows not yet the uses of the world. She fears that power is as a beast which grasps And loosens not: a snake whose look transmutes All things to guilt which is its nutriment. She cannot know how well the supine slaves Of blind authority read the truth of things When written on a brow of guilelessness: She sees not yet triumphant Innocence Stand at the judgement-seat of mortal man, A judge and an accuser of the wrong Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, my Lord; Our suite will join yours in the court below. [Exeunt. END OF THE FOURTH ACT. ACT V Scene I. An Apartment in Orsino's Palace. Enter Orsino and Giacomo. Giacomo. Do evil deeds thus quickly come to end? O, that the vain remorse which must chastise Crimes done, had but as loud a voice to warn As its keen sting is mortal to avenge! O, that the hour when present had cast off The mantle of its mystery, and shown The ghastly form with which it now returns When its scared game is roused, cheering the hounds Of conscience to their prey! Alas! Alas! It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed, To kill an old and hoary-headed father. Orsino. It has turned out unluckily, in truth. Giacomo. To violate the sacred doors of sleep; To cheat kind Nature of the placid death Which she prepares for overwearied age; To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soul Which might have quenched in reconciling prayers A life of burning crimes . . . Orsino.                 You cannot say I urged you to the deed. Giacomo.              O, had I never Found in thy smooth and ready countenance The mirror of my darkest thoughts; hadst thou Never with hints and questions made me look Upon the monster of my thought, until It grew familiar to desire . . . Orsino.                  'Tis thus Men cast the blame of their unprosperous acts Upon the abettors of their own resolve; Or anything but their weak, guilty selves. And yet, confess the truth, it is the peril In which you stand that gives you this pale sickness Of penitence; confess 'tis fear disguised From its own shame that takes the mantle now Of thin remorse. What if we yet were safe? Giacomo. How can that be? Already Beatrice, Lucretia and the murderer are in prison. I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak, Sent to arrest us. Orsino.           I have all prepared For instant flight. We can escape even now, So we take fleet occasion by the hair. Giacomo. Rather expire in tortures, as I may. What! will you cast by self-accusing flight Assured conviction upon Beatrice? She, who alone in this unnatural work, Stands like God's angel ministered upon By fiends; avenging such a nameless wrong As turns black parricide to piety; Whilst we for basest ends . . . I fear, Orsino, While I consider all your words and looks, Comparing them with your proposal now, That you must be a villain. For what end Could you engage in such a perilous crime, Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles, Even to this gulf? Thou art no liar? No, Thou art a lie! Traitor and murderer! Coward and slave! But, no, defend thyself; [Drawing. Let the sword speak what the indignant tongue Disdains to brand thee with. Orsino.                Put up your weapon. Is it the desperation of your fear Makes you thus rash and sudden with a friend, Now ruined for your sake? If honest anger Have moved you, know, that what I just proposed Was but to try you. As for me, I think, Thankless affection led me to this point, From which, if my firm temper could repent, I cannot now recede. Even whilst we speak The ministers of justice wait below: They grant me these brief moments. Now if you Have any word of melancholy comfort To speak to your pale wife, 'twere best to pass Out at the postern, and avoid them so. Giacomo. O, generous friend! How canst thou pardon me? Would that my life could purchase thine! Orsino.                       That wish Now comes a day too late. Haste; fare thee well! Hear'st thou not steps along the corridor? [Exit Giacomo. I'm sorry for it; but the guards are waiting At his own gate, and such was my contrivance That I might rid me both of him and them. I thought to act a solemn comedy Upon the painted scene of this new world, And to attain my own peculiar ends By some such plot of mingled good and ill As others weave; but there arose a Power Which grasped and snapped the threads of my device And turned it to a net of ruin . . . Ha! [A shout is heard. Is that my name I hear proclaimed abroad? But I will pass, wrapped in a vile disguise; Rags on my back, and a false innocence Upon my face, through the misdeeming crowd Which judges by what seems. 'Tis easy then For a new name and for a country new, And a new life, fashioned on old desires, To change the honours of abandoned Rome. And these must be the masks of that within, Which must remain unaltered . . . Oh, I fear That what is past will never let me rest! Why, when none else is conscious, but myself, Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's contempt Trouble me? Have I not the power to fly My own reproaches? Shall I be the slave Of . . . what? A word? which those of this false world Employ against each other, not themselves; As men wear daggers not for self-offence. But if I am mistaken, where shall I Find the disguise to hide me from myself, As now I skulk from every other eye? [Exit. Scene II. A Hall of Justice. Camillo, Judges, &c., are discovered seated; Marzio is led in. First Judge. Accused, do you persist in your denial? I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty? I demand who were the participators In your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth. Marzio. My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing; Olimpio sold the robe to me from which You would infer my guilt. Second Judge.               Away with him!               First Judge. Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kiss Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner, That you would bandy lover's talk with it Till it wind out your life and soul? Away! Marzio. Spare me! O, spare! I will confess. First Judge.                    Then speak.                    Marzio. I strangled him in his sleep. First Judge.                 Who urged you to it?                 Marzio. His own son Giacomo, and the young prelate Orsino sent me to Petrella; there The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I And my companion forthwith murdered him. Now let me die. First Judge.         This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, Lead forth the prisoner! Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, guarded.              Look upon this man; When did you see him last? Beatrice.               We never saw him.               Marzio. You know me too well, Lady Beatrice. Beatrice. I know thee! How? where? when? Marzio.                 You know 'twas I Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes To kill your father. When the thing was done You clothed me in a robe of woven gold And bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see. You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, You know that what I speak is true. [Beatrice advances towards him; he covers his face, and shrinks back.                    Oh, dart The terrible resentment of those eyes On the dead earth! Turn them away from me! They wound: 'twas torture forced the truth. My Lords, Having said this let me be led to death. Beatrice. Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay awhile. Camillo. Guards, lead him not away. Beatrice.               Cardinal Camillo, You have a good repute for gentleness And wisdom: can it be that you sit here To countenance a wicked farce like this? When some obscure and trembling slave is dragged From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart And bade to answer, not as he believes, But as those may suspect or do desire Whose questions thence suggest their own reply: And that in peril of such hideous torments As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now The thing you surely know, which is that you, If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel, And you were told: 'Confess that you did poison Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed child Who was the lodestar of your life:'and though All see, since his most swift and piteous death, That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time, And all the things hoped for or done therein Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief, Yet you would say, 'I confess anything:' And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, The refuge of dishonourable death. I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert My innocence. Camillo. (much moved).        What shall we think, my Lords? Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul That she is guiltless. Judge.             Yet she must be tortured.             Camillo. I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew (If he now lived he would be just her age; His hair, too, was her colour, and his eyes Like hers in shape, but blue and not so deep) As that most perfect image of God's love That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. She is as pure as speechless infancy! Judge. Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord, If you forbid the rack. His Holiness Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime By the severest forms of law; nay even To stretch a point against the criminals. The prisoners stand accused of parricide Upon such evidence as justifies Torture. Beatrice. What evidence? This man's? Judge.               Even so.               Beatrice (to Marzio). Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forth Out of the multitude of living men To kill the innocent? Marzio.            I am Marzio, Thy father's vassal. Beatrice.            Fix thine eyes on mine; Answer to what I ask. [Turning to the Judges.            I prithee mark His countenance: unlike bold calumny Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends His gaze on the blind earth. (To Marzio.)                What! wilt thou say That I did murder my own father? Marzio.                  Oh! Spare me! My brain swims round . . . I cannot speak . . . It was that horrid torture forced the truth. Take me away! Let her not look on me! I am a guilty miserable wretch; I have said all I know; now, let me die! Beatrice. My Lords, if by my nature I had been So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged, Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, And the rack makes him utter, do you think I should have left this two-edged instrument Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife With my own name engraven on the heft, Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, For my own death? That with such horrible need For deepest silence, I should have neglected So trivial a precaution, as the making His tomb the keeper of a secret written On a thief's memory? What is his poor life? What are a thousand lives? A parricide Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives! (Turning to Marzio.) And thou . . . Marzio.        Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more! That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones, Wound worse than torture. (To the Judges.               I have told it all; For pity's sake lead me away to death. Camillo. Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice, He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf From the keen breath of the serenest north. Beatrice. O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me; So mayst thou answer God with less dismay: What evil have we done thee? I, alas! Have lived but on this earth a few sad years, And so my lot was ordered, that a father First turned the moments of awakening life To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope; and then Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul; And my untainted fame; and even that peace Which sleeps within the core of the heart's heart; But the wound was not mortal; so my hate Became the only worship I could lift To our great father, who in pity and love, Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off; And thus his wrong becomes my accusation; And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth: Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart. If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path Over the trampled laws of God and man, Rush not before thy Judge, and say: 'My maker, I have done this and more; for there was one Who was most pure and innocent on earth; And because she endured what never any Guilty or innocent endured before: Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought; Because thy hand at length did rescue her; I with my words killed her and all her kin.' Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay The reverence living in the minds of men Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame! Think what it is to strangle infant pity, Cradled in the belief of guileless looks, Till it become a crime to suffer. Think What 'tis to blot with infamy and blood All that which shows like innocence, and is, Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent, So that the world lose all discrimination Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt, And that which now compels thee to reply To what I ask: Am I, or am I not A parricide? Marzio.       Thou art not!       Judge.               What is this?               Marzio. I here declare those whom I did accuse Are innocent. 'Tis I alone am guilty. Judge. Drag him away to torments; let them be Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not Till he confess. Marzio.          Torture me as ye will: A keener pang has wrung a higher truth From my last breath. She is most innocent! Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me; I will not give you that fine piece of nature To rend and ruin. [Exit Marzio, guarded. Camillo.          What say ye now, my Lords?          Judge. Let tortures strain the truth till it be white As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind. Camillo. Yet stained with blood. Judge (to Beatrice).             Know you this paper, Lady?             Beatrice. Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here As my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he, Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge, What, all in one? Here is Orsino's name; Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine. What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what, And therefore on the chance that it may be Some evil, will ye kill us? Enter an Officer. Officer.                Marzio's dead.                Judge. What did he say? Officer.          Nothing. As soon as we Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us, As one who baffles a deep adversary; And holding his breath, died. Judge.                 There remains nothing But to apply the question to those prisoners, Who yet remain stubborn. Camillo.              I overrule Further proceedings, and in the behalf Of these most innocent and noble persons Will use my interest with the Holy Father. Judge. Let the Pope's pleasure then be done. Meanwhile Conduct these culprits each to separate cells; And be the engines ready: for this night If the Pope's resolution be as grave, Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truth Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan. [Exeunt. Scene III. The Cell of a Prison. Beatrice is discovered asleep on a couch. Enter Bernardo. Bernardo. How gently slumber rests upon her face, Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spent Closing in night and dreams, and so prolonged. After such torments as she bore last night, How light and soft her breathing comes. Ay me! Methinks that I shall never sleep again. But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest From this sweet folded flower, thus . . . wake! awake! What, sister, canst thou sleep? Beatrice (awaking).                  I was just dreaming That we were all in Paradise. Thou knowest This cell seems like a kind of Paradise After our father's presence. Bernardo.                Dear, dear sister, Would that thy dream were not a dream! O God! How shall I tell? Beatrice.          What wouldst thou tell, sweet brother?          Bernardo. Look not so calm and happy, or even whilst I stand considering what I have to say My heart will break. Beatrice.            See now, thou mak'st me weep: How very friendless thou wouldst be, dear child, If I were dead. Say what thou hast to say. Bernardo. They have confessed; they could endure no more The tortures . . . Beatrice.           Ha! What was there to confess? They must have told some weak and wicked lie To flatter their tormentors. Have they said That they were guilty? O white innocence, That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide Thine awful and serenest countenance From those who know thee not! Enter Judge with Lucretia and Giacomo, guarded.                 Ignoble hearts! For some brief spasms of pain, which are at least As mortal as the limbs through which they pass, Are centuries of high splendour laid in dust? And that eternal honour which should live Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame, Changed to a mockery and a byword? What! Will you give up these bodies to be dragged At horses' heels, so that our hair should sweep The footsteps of the vain and senseless crowd, Who, that they may make our calamity Their worship and their spectacle, will leave The churches and the theatres as void As their own hearts? Shall the light multitude Fling, at their choice, curses or faded pity, Sad funeral flowers to deck a living corpse, Upon us as we pass to pass away, And leave . . . what memory of our having been? Infamy, blood, terror, despair? O thou, Who wert a mother to the parentless, Kill not thy child! Let not her wrongs kill thee! Brother, lie down with me upon the rack, And let us each be silent as a corpse; It soon will be as soft as any grave. 'Tis but the falsehood it can wring from fear Makes the rack cruel. Giacomo.            They will tear the truth Even from thee at last, those cruel pains: For pity's sake say thou art guilty now. Lucretia. Oh, speak the truth! Let us all quickly die; And after death, God is our judge, not they; He will have mercy on us. Bernardo.               If indeed It can be true, say so, dear sister mine; And then the Pope will surely pardon you, And all be well. Judge.          Confess, or I will warp Your limbs with such keen tortures . . . Beatrice.                       Tortures! Turn The rack henceforth into a spinning-wheel! Torture your dog, that he may tell when last He lapped the blood his master shed . . . not me! My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart, And of the soul; ay, of the inmost soul, Which weeps within tears as of burning gall To see, in this ill world where none are true, My kindred false to their deserted selves. And with considering all the wretched life Which I have lived, and its now wretched end, And the small justice shown by Heaven and Earth To me or mine; and what a tyrant thou art, And what slaves these; and what a world we make, The oppressor and the oppressed . . . such pangs compel My answer. What is it thou wouldst with me? Judge. Art thou not guilty of thy father's death? Beatrice. Or wilt thou rather tax high-judging God That He permitted such an act as that Which I have suffered, and which He beheld; Made it unutterable, and took from it All refuge, all revenge, all consequence, But that which thou hast called my father's death? Which is or is not what men call a crime, Which either I have done, or have not done; Say what ye will. I shall deny no more. If ye desire it thus, thus let it be, And so an end of all. Now do your will; No other pains shall force another word. Judge. She is convicted, but has not confessed. Be it enough. Until their final sentence Let none have converse with them. You, young Lord, Linger not here! Beatrice.          Oh, tear him not away!          Judge. Guards, do your duty. Bernardo (embracing Beatrice).            Oh! would ye divide Body from soul? Officer.         That is the headsman's business.         [Exeunt all but Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo. Giacomo. Have I confessed? Is it all over now? No hope! No refuge! O weak, wicked tongue Which hast destroyed me, would that thou hadst been Cut out and thrown to dogs first! To have killed My father first, and then betrayed my sister; Ay, thee! the one thing innocent and pure In this black guilty world, to that which I So well deserve! My wife! my little ones! Destitute, helpless, and I . . . Father! God! Canst Thou forgive even the unforgiving, When their full hearts break thus, thus! . . . [Covers his face and weeps. Lucretia.                          O my child! To what a dreadful end are we all come! Why did I yield? Why did I not sustain Those torments? Oh, that I were all dissolved Into these fast and unavailing tears, Which flow and feel not! Beatrice.              What 'twas weak to do, 'Tis weaker to lament, once being done; Take cheer! The God who knew my wrong, and made Our speedy act the angel of His wrath, Seems, and but seems, to have abandoned us. Let us not think that we shall die for this. Brother, sit near me; give me your firm hand, You had a manly heart. Bear up! Bear up! O dearest Lady, put your gentle head Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile: Your eyes look pale, hollow and overworn, With heaviness of watching and slow grief. Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune, Not cheerful, nor yet sad; some dull old thing, Some outworn and unused monotony, Such as our country gossips sing and spin, Till they almost forget they live: lie down! So, that will do. Have I forgot the words? Faith! They are sadder than I thought they were. SONG False friend, wilt thou smile or weep When my life is laid asleep? Little cares for a smile or a tear, The clay-cold corpse upon the bier! Farewell! Heigho! What is this whispers low? There is a snake in thy smile, my dear; And bitter poison within thy tear. Sweet sleep, were death like to thee, Or if thou couldst mortal be, I would close these eyes of pain; When to wake? Never again. O World! Farewell! Listen to the passing bell! It says, thou and I must part, With a light and a heavy heart. [The scene closes. Scene IV. A Hall of the Prison. Enter Camillo and Bernardo. Camillo. The Pope is stern; not to be moved or bent. He looked as calm and keen as is the engine Which tortures and which kills, exempt itself From aught that it inflicts; a marble form, A rite, a law, a custom: not a man. He frowned, as if to frown had been the trick Of his machinery, on the advocates Presenting the defences, which he tore And threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh voice: 'Which among ye defended their old father Killed in his sleep?' Then to another: 'Thou Dost this in virtue of thy place; 'tis well.' He turned to me then, looking deprecation, And said these three words, coldly: 'They must die.' Bernardo. And yet you left him not? Camillo.               I urged him still; Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish wrong Which prompted your unnatural parent's death. And he replied: 'Paolo Santa Croce Murdered his mother yester evening, And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the young Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. Authority, and power, and hoary hair Are grown crimes capital. You are my nephew, You come to ask their pardon; stay a moment; Here is their sentence; never see me more Till, to the letter, it be all fulfilled.' Bernardo. O God, not so! I did believe indeed That all you said was but sad preparation For happy news. Oh, there are words and looks To bend the sternest purpose! Once I knew them, Now I forget them at my dearest need. What think you if I seek him out, and bathe His feet and robe with hot and bitter tears? Importune him with prayers, vexing his brain With my perpetual cries, until in rage He strike me with his pastoral cross, and trample Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood May stain the senseless dust on which he treads, And remorse waken mercy? I will do it! Oh, wait till I return! [Rushes out. Camillo.             Alas! poor boy! A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray To the deaf sea. Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, guarded. Beatrice.          I hardly dare to fear That thou bring'st other news than a just pardon. Camillo. May God in heaven be less inexorable To the Pope's prayers, than he has been to mine. Here is the sentence and the warrant. Beatrice (wildly).                     O My God! Can it be possible I have To die so suddenly? So young to go Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground! To be nailed down into a narrow place; To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no more Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost How fearful! to be nothing! Or to be . . . What? Oh, where am I? Let me not go mad! Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! If there should be No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void world; The wide, gray, lampless, deep, unpeopled world! If all things then should be . . . my father's spirit, His eye, his voice, his touch surrounding me; The atmosphere and breath of my dead life! If sometimes, as a shape more like himself, Even the form which tortured me on earth, Masked in gray hairs and wrinkles, he should come And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix His eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down! For was he not alone omnipotent On Earth, and ever present? Even though dead, Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, And work for me and mine still the same ruin, Scorn, pain, despair? Who ever yet returned To teach the laws of Death's untrodden realm? Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now, Oh, whither, whither? Lucretia.            Trust in God's sweet love, The tender promises of Christ: ere night, Think, we shall be in Paradise. Beatrice.                  'Tis past! Whatever comes my heart shall sink no more. And yet, I know not why, your words strike chill: How tedious, false and cold seem all things. I Have met with much injustice in this world; No difference has been made by God or man, Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. I am cut off from the only world I know, From light, and life, and love, in youth's sweet prime. You do well telling me to trust in God, I hope I do trust in Him. In whom else Can any trust? And yet my heart is cold. [During the latter speeches Giacomo has retired conversing with Camillo, who now goes out; Giacomo advances. Giacomo. Know you not, Mother . . . Sister, know you not? Bernardo even now is gone to implore The Pope to grant our pardon. Lucretia.                 Child, perhaps It will be granted. We may all then live To make these woes a tale for distant years: Oh, what a thought! It gushes to my heart Like the warm blood. Beatrice.            Yet both will soon be cold. Oh, trample out that thought! Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope: It is the only ill which can find place Upon the giddy, sharp and narrow hour Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost That it should spare the eldest flower of spring: Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er whose couch Even now a city stands, strong, fair, and free; Now stench and blackness yawn, like death. Oh, plead With famine, or wind-walking Pestilence, Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man! Cruel, cold, formal man; righteous in words, In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must die: Since such is the reward of innocent lives; Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men, Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tears To death as to life's sleep; 'twere just the grave Were some strange joy for us. Come, obscure Death, And wind me in thine all-embracing arms! Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom, And rock me to the sleep from which none wake. Live ye, who live, subject to one another As we were once, who now . . . Bernardo rushes in. Bernardo.                 Oh, horrible! That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth in prayer, Even till the heart is vacant and despairs, Should all be vain! The ministers of death Are waiting round the doors. I thought I saw Blood on the face of one . . . What if 'twere fancy? Soon the heart's blood of all I love on earth Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off As if 'twere only rain. O life! O world! Cover me! let me be no more! To see That perfect mirror of pure innocence Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and good, Shivered to dust! To see thee, Beatrice, Who made all lovely thou didst look upon . . . Thee, light of life . . . dead, dark! while I say, sister, To hear I have no sister; and thou, Mother, Whose love was as a bond to all our loves . . . Dead! The sweet bond broken! Enter Camillo and Guards.                They come! Let me Kiss those warm lips before their crimson leaves Are blighted . . . white . . . cold. Say farewell, before Death chokes that gentle voice! Oh, let me hear You speak! Beatrice.      Farewell, my tender brother. Think Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now: And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for thee Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh despair, But tears and patience. One thing more, my child: For thine own sake be constant to the love Thou bearest us; and to the faith that I, Though wrapped in a strange cloud of crime and shame, Lived ever holy and unstained. And though Ill tongues shall wound me, and our common name Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent brow For men to point at as they pass, do thou Forbear, and never think a thought unkind Of those, who perhaps love thee in their graves. So mayest thou die as I do; fear and pain Being subdued. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! Bernardo. I cannot say, farewell! Camillo.             Oh, Lady Beatrice!             Beatrice. Give yourself no unnecessary pain, My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie My girdle for me, and bind up this hair In any simple knot; ay, that does well. And yours I see is coming down. How often Have we done this for one another; now We shall not do it any more. My Lord, We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well. THE END Composed at Rome and near Leghorn (Villa Valsovano), May - August 8, 1819; published 1820 (spring) by C. & J. Ollier, London. This edition of 250 copies was printed in Italy 'because,' writes Shelley to Peacock, Sept. 21, 1819, 'it costs, with all duties and freightage, about half what it would cost in London.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cenci - A Tragedy In Five Acts ,