Part 3

Oh, I have thee, Asthore: deep at this heart Thy presence is a fragrance subtly-rare, As blooms exhale the midnight hour. Whate’er I do, will, dream, aspire, achieve, thou art My Aim, my End. Nay, more, the absolute part Of my Soul’s life! Should hollow-eyed Despair Clutch on me it is only that I fare Forth thro’ the day, and barter at Life’s mart, Yet fail to win thee home. When Truth to woo me Comes, she arrays her in thy form; and those Assimilate twins, Beauty and Duty, to me Are thee and thy soft word. In toil, repose, Asleep, awake, thy spirit whispers thro’ me; Nor boast I hours thou dost not ope and close.

Each hath the Type of bliss within his thought That utters for him all his Life would be: The summit of his soul’s felicity, The consummation wherein should be wrought In deft attainment all his spirit bought Awhile in fervent hope--whose roundest fee ’Twas good to pay. ’Tis so: enough! For me, Be it amiss or be it fitly sought, This would I crave--that mine and thy full soul May touch their mutual deep content, howe’er Life twists its tortuous course; may still control Their Individuality, yet fare So subtly each on each, that as one whole They might stretch to their goal in God’s pure air.

A WORD TO THE CZAR

(_Penned on “Vladimir’s Day” January 22, 1905._)

Thou great Usurper of the Liberty Of hapless Men and Maids, this gory shame Shall wrap thee in a livid Cloak of Flame Ere days have swoll’n to years. We who are free, Who owe no fouling bond of Tyranny, We look at Thee, and execrate thy Name: Nor in our Vision art thou quit of blame That by the hand of him who stood for thee This bloody deed was done. Across the Years, And from the lips of peoples one and all, A mighty curse rolls on, to reach His ears Who silently surveys thy hastening fall:-- Soon may His Might pluck from thy reeking Hand Thy Batôn of a self-usurped command!

VIKING-THROES

Life’s a Battle, full of stress, Full of Change, Struggle, Combat, Weariness, Circling range-- Be limbs and heart sore heavy, yet Foe on foe is set.

Give me fingers for the Fight Keen and strong; Give a Mind that swerves no mite ’Mid the Throng; Beget me Valour, stiffly-grown, Hewn to stand alone.

Grant such Virtue so to be So to dare, That tho’ all may faint or flee --Howsoe’er The Fight may turn--I yet shall stand Firm in Eye and Hand.

Let some Purpose thro’ my tears Gleam and glow, Ah! let not the ruining Years, Full of woe, Engulf then in their dim embrace That high spectral Grace.

Yet, all Boon of boons above, This I crave, Let a tender ample Love My Spirit save Forth from the harsh ungentle chains Fight so oft attains.

“SENTENTIOUS”

Heard I a Preacher loud and high, With speech mellifluous, Who deftly wove before mine eye Doctrines circuitous.

I heard him, ay, I gladly heard, Heard all he had to tell-- Thinking full many a prettier bird Warbled a tithe as well.

Then thought I: Friend, full sweet to hear, Yet say, were I in need, Were all about dim and drear, What then might be your deed?

Full glibly do the lips relate Expressions that the heart Never hath gripped, whose pomp and state Of utterance dwell apart.

And what their Worth? Barren and bald If it be that the Hand Wakes not so ready, whene’er called, To make request command!

To speak, to speech, to vaunt and preach, How passing easy ’tis! But to stretch forth a loving hand To souls in Ill’s abyss,--

Such is the noblest part of Life; Ay, well to know it deep! For Speech, ’mid daily Stress and Strife Oft rocks the Deed asleep!

AN IDYLL OF THE BROADS

As on a river fair I sped,-- My boat beneath mine oars nigh flew,-- Amazed I saw a Scotsman’s head Whose form and visage well I knew.

He hailed me by my name, and I, Astonied thus to see him near, My scudding craft did thither hie With gladness, mixt withal with fear.

For with immense accoutrement He fished for fishes merrily: Elaborate, magnificent, A very king of fishers he!

His line was of the best, his rod Superb, as likewise was his float; And, scorning by his mother sod, He stood upon a varnished boat.

His mien was mighty, seriousness Lit o’er his stedfast countenance; He grasped his rod with firm caress, Anxiety in every glance.

His son lay by to render aid When salmon carried off his bait, Or whales, maybe, who nought afraid Cared nothing for his sombre state.

With reverence and thrilling throe I drew anear with slow approach;-- Yet need I not have quivered so, For all that river held was roach!

TO A “CANTERBURY BELL”!

Rare lovely Bloom! dear sweet simplicity, Nodding beneath the Heavens thy delicate lure! Thine exquisite sculpture doth upcall on me The realms of wonder, visionary and pure! I gaze on thee, thou waxen delicate, Until the World and all its strutting pelf Fade wanly hence, and an ecstatic scene Of fauns and goblins, decked in legend state, Steps faintly forth, to bear my dizzy self Within their tripping circles, nought between. There, ’mid the hedgerow’s tortuous garlands, fair And blithe thou droop’st thy lovely brow; and thence Thy zephyry fragrance, delicate and rare, Steals with a dewy breath upon my sense. Eager I seek thee out then, to behold Thy bell upon the vesper breezes toll Pomp’s knelling requiem with solemn nod, Thou purest Joy, ’mid teeming fold on fold Of prodigal waywardness, is this thy dole, Simplicity that boasts no touch save God?

The Honeysuckle’s heavily-laden breath Floats on the balmy winds in languid fumes; The Nightshade breathes its careless boon of death To lips that tamper lightly with its blooms; The Meadow-sweet with carved tiaras deft; The Poppy-petal’s crumpled charactery; The tangly ramified Convolvulus;-- All of their several virtues are bereft At the soft touch of thy Simplicity, Simplicity of peace voluptuous.

Oh, exquisite marvel, whither shall I turn To sate the thirstings thou hast spoken up? My soul with vast inquietude doth burn. Rare drafts are there within thy luscious cup That I may put my lips upon its brim, And, sloughing off Earth’s smutch and soilure, quaff Deeply the secrets of eternal ease? Or sway’st thou merely as a transient whim, Idle, capricious, windward-driven chaff? Yet surely, surely thou art more than these!

Or very All, or very Nothing: why Hast thou upspoken thirst for what is not If thou and I shall clutch the gloom, and die, Life but a tangled boon, a vicious blot, Spun by the sightless Powers? Nay, shalt not thou, Elate, clad in eternal Vestiture, Greet me upon the eternal Marge? Yea, then, Shall not I, ageless Wisdom on my brow, Spell out thy charm occult? Sweet Mystery pure, So shall I search thy secrets yet again!

THE GOLDEN MUSICIAN

Melodious Bird, thy winsome word Falls sweetly on my ear! Stupendous Song, ’tis borne along, Mellow and deft and clear, Till each soul-nook with music shook Rings back with merry cheer!

What vivid change will it so range! Swiftly ’twill follow after A pensive chirp with gay “stoup-stirp” Ringing with merry laughter, Until its chime in resonant rime Echoes from roof and rafter.

The livelong day, come gloom or grey, Always and ever singing; Be ’t bliss or ill so singing still, Cheerily, merrily ringing, Thou upon us in music thus Spray of delight art flinging.

Is it a strand, a vagrant hand, From Love’s exalted treasure, So bearing us voluptuous Rare peals of delicate pleasure, Thrilling the soul, tho’ vast and whole Its fullness mocks all measure?

’Tis as a word inwardly stirred, As Memory subtly lingers O’er Hours fled by the Noon, that lie Past touch of confident fingers, Yet that upcall the bowered hall, The voice of silent singers.

Then say, oh Mage of antique age, These, are they gifts of olden And lovelit days whereto in praise I utter back beholden?-- See, see, thy throat trilling each note Throbs like a zephyr golden.

There--as I gaze in rapt amaze-- Swollen with rare emotion, Fervid of joy, scorning alloy, Spurning a base devotion To shackled earth, it trips a mirth All of a heavenly potion.

A murmurous note doth freely float Like waves of rippling water; Then a high song doth course along To Sorrow uttering slaughter, Commanding forth in merry wrath Bliss and her jocund daughter.

Attenuate heights in perilous flights, Soaring in eagle fashion, Thou seekest out, from whence about On aching ears there flash on Rhythms unwrought, delights unthought, Echoes of ageless passion.

Oh, this divine rare lay of thine Rings like a heavenly lyric, Lulling each sense, wafting me hence, Bidding the World’s Empiric Fade on my ear awhile, to hear Thy cadence full and spheric.

Thy splendid boon of glorious Tune Hath tongues of fire cloven; Each diverse part with subtle art, Each period rich and proven, To touch to one theme till ’tis spun Of texture interwoven.

Ecstatic Dreams, are these thy themes? Stung by thy wondrous lyre, So wilt thou go with quickening glow, On wings of flameless fire, From light to light in fearless flight Of music ever higher?--

Till every cloud in passion proud Mightily burst asunder, Display a new translunar view With its own soul of wonder:-- Be ’t as it may, a wizard lay, Or ecstasy of thunder?

For every sphere thy song’s career So bursts upon to capture, Amply is strewn with rhythmic tune, Whereunto to adapt your Melodious Verse and then rehearse Once more its delicate rapture.

Hardly content with music pent In melodies once given Wilt thou again repeat the strain, Till on by passion driven, That every clause may peal applause Of harmony twice striven?

Oh, that the Muse would touch to use This lyre as thine ’tis using! Then might I rise with mystical eyes, Swoll’n with the theme of musing, Soaring athirst my song to burst With utterance scarce of choosing.

So Song would scorn corporeal bourne; Dilated so pursuing With eager breast its passionate quest, All transient worth eschewing, Pausing its lute awhile when, mute, Life’s towering Vasts reviewing.

How then ’twould wear a rapture rare, An other-worldly glory; In rich array each simple lay Decking Life’s thought or story; Still dew-impearled were all the world Sombre and blear and hoary.

On Wonder’s wing ’twould featly bring Exultant exaltation To all that foot amid the bruit Of daily lot and station, In uttering such clear dreams as touch Doubt unto Adoration,

So shall the Balm--oh winsome charm!-- Of her rhapsodic madness Keep blithe and young the World’s wild tongue; Its trick of gloom and sadness Banish away from the light of day With an unquestioning Gladness.

The spiritous reign of Song’s domain Eternity embowers: Ere faulty Man his Hour began ’T had rung the heavenly towers With echoing shaft-peals, that now waft Earth with ecstatic showers.

With hesitant ruth we ponder Truth, Thou sing’st as thou dost know it-- Beholding it all wonder-writ, Then unto us to show it In sweeping tune, unwrought, pure-hewn, Dear never-halting Poet!

Yet our frail Song ’twixt Right and Wrong Ofttimes will pierce unwitting; As were the gleams of Poet’s dreams Fair beams of Beauty flitting Whence Reason ne’er snuffed thro’ the air Wooing Time’s proud permitting.

No longer with pard, kin or kith, Stranger, so wilt thou wander A murky isle, in splendid style Ecstatic Song to squander On such as fain would turn again Thy source of Song to ponder?

Not thine to greet the Sun’s high beat On Freedom’s pinions soaring! Nor thine the rich rapt melody which Thy woody tribes are pouring! But all apart with tuneful art Spiritual realms exploring!

Within the gloom o’ a dusky room, All in a dusky City Callow and wan, so tun’st thou on High anthem and soft ditty? Scarce thine the mood and attitude Waking a captive’s pity!

What reckest thou if leafy bough Or plaster palanquin thee! Howe’er thou yearn for the Noons that burn Not gloom nor bars may win thee From the clear Joy pure of alloy Exquisitely strung within thee.

Then sing thou on, while I upon The flight of thy pure Vision Am borne aloft on pinions soft, Perceiving no elision, Thither whence Life and Toil and Strife Are Pity and Derision.

Yet, that I might pursue the flight, Purer and swifter travel Past blame or praise, till Life’s Amaze Shall dwindle and unravel, Sweetly to shine like this of thine, Rare Beauty, scarce a cavil.

TO ----

A Stranger, and thou took’st me in. Great Heart! It fits not well my temper to high-trape My woes before a listless world, or drape With melancholy habit each grim part Life bad me to, for with a sovereign art She did it so, my stubborn thought to shape. Yet, tho’ I lightly scorn wide mouths agape, ’Twere worthy of high record, in this mart Of barter and exchange, how I to thee Came, all my prospect waste and spilt, A Stranger, and with what unquestioning air Thou took me in, and sought to succour me: Forget it thou may’st; likeliest is thou wilt; But not so I who found a heart so rare.

Transcriber’s Notes

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

The following corrections have been applied to the text (before/after):

(p. 72) Penned on “Valdimir’s Day” ... Penned on “Vladimir’s Day” ...

(p. 88) Be’t bliss or ill ... Be ’t bliss or ill ...