Chapter 2

From upland slopes I see the cows file by, Lowing, great-chested, down the homeward trail, By dusking fields and meadows shining pale With moon-tipped dandelions. Flickering high, A peevish night-hawk in the western sky Beats up into the lucent solitudes, Or drops with griding wing. The stilly woods Grow dark and deep and gloom mysteriously. Cool night-winds creep, and whisper in mine ear The homely cricket gossips at my feet. From far-off pools and wastes of reeds I hear, Clear and soft-piped, the chanting frogs break sweet In full Pandean chorus. One by one Shine out the stars, and the great night comes on.

THE CLEARER SELF

Before me grew the human soul, And after I am dead and gone, Through grades of effort and control The marvellous work shall still go on.

Each mortal in his little span Hath only lived, if he have shown What greatness there can be in man Above the measured and the known;

How through the ancient layers of night, In gradual victory secure, Grows ever with increasing light The Energy serene and pure:

The Soul, that from a monstrous past, From age to age, from hour to hour, Feels upward to some height at last Of unimagined grace and power.

Though yet the sacred fire be dull, In folds of thwarting matter furled, Ere death be nigh, while life is full, O Master Spirit of the world,

Grant me to know, to seek, to find, In some small measure though it be, Emerging from the waste and blind, The clearer self, the grander me!

TO THE PROPHETIC SOUL

What are these bustlers at the gate Of now or yesterday, These playthings in the hand of Fate, That pass, and point no way;

These clinging bubbles whose mock fires For ever dance and gleam, Vain foam that gathers and expires Upon the world's dark stream;

These gropers betwixt right and wrong, That seek an unknown goal, Most ignorant, when they seem most strong; What are they, then, O Soul,

That thou shouldst covet overmuch A tenderer range of heart, And yet at every dreamed-of touch So tremulously start?

Thou with that hatred ever new Of the world's base control, That vision of the large and true, That quickness of the soul;

Nay, for they are not of thy kind, But in a rarer clay God dowered thee with an alien mind; Thou canst not be as they.

Be strong therefore; resume thy load, And forward stone by stone Go singing, though the glorious road Thou travellest alone.

THE LAND OF PALLAS

Methought I journeyed along ways that led for ever Throughout a happy land where strife and care were dead, And life went by me flowing like a placid river Past sandy eyots where the shifting shoals make head.

A land where beauty dwelt supreme, and right, the donor Of peaceful days; a land of equal gifts and deeds, Of limitless fair fields and plenty had with honour; A land of kindly tillage and untroubled meads,

Of gardens, and great fields, and dreaming rose-wreathed alleys, Wherein at dawn and dusk the vesper sparrows sang; Of cities set far off on hills down vista'd valleys, And floods so vast and old, men wist not whence they sprang,

Of groves, and forest depths, and fountains softly welling, And roads that ran soft-shadowed past the open doors, Of mighty palaces and many a lofty dwelling, Where all men entered and no master trod their floors.

A land of lovely speech, where every tone was fashioned By generations of emotion high and sweet, Of thought and deed and bearing lofty and impassioned; A land of golden calm, grave forms, and fretless feet.

And every mode and saying of that land gave token Of limits where no death or evil fortune fell, And men lived out long lives in proud content unbroken, For there no man was rich, none poor, but all were well.

And all the earth was common, and no base contriving Of money of coined gold was needed there or known, But all men wrought together without greed or striving, And all the store of all to each man was his own.

From all that busy land, grey town, and peaceful village, Where never jar was heard, nor wail, nor cry of strife, From every laden stream and all the fields of tillage, Arose the murmur and the kindly hum of life.

At morning to the fields came forth the men, each neighbour Hand linked to other, crowned, with wreaths upon their hair, And all day long with joy they gave their hands to labour, Moving at will, unhastened, each man to his share.

At noon the women came, the tall fair women, bearing Baskets of wicker in their ample hands for each, And learned the day's brief tale, and how the fields were faring, And blessed them with their lofty beauty and blithe speech.

And when the great day's toil was over, and the shadows Grew with the flocking stars, the sound of festival Rose in each city square, and all the country meadows, Palace, and paven court, and every rustic hall.

Beside smooth streams, where alleys and green gardens meeting Ran downward to the flood with marble steps, a throng Came forth of all the folk, at even, gaily greeting, With echo of sweet converse, jest, and stately song.

In all their great fair cities there was neither seeking For power of gold, nor greed of lust, nor desperate pain Of multitudes that starve, or, in hoarse anger breaking, Beat at the doors of princes, break and fall in vain.

But all the children of that peaceful land, like brothers, Lofty of spirit, wise, and ever set to learn The chart of neighbouring souls, the bent and need of others, Thought only of good deeds, sweet speech, and just return.

And there there was no prison, power of arms, nor palace, Where prince or judge held sway, for none was needed there; Long ages since the very names of fraud and malice Had vanished from men's tongues, and died from all men's care.

And there there were no bonds of contract, deed, or marriage, No oath, nor any form, to make the word more sure, For no man dreamed of hurt, dishonour, or miscarriage, Where every thought was truth, and every heart was pure.

There were no castes of rich or poor, of slave or master, Where all were brothers, and the curse of gold was dead, But all that wise fair race to kindlier ends and vaster Moved on together with the same majestic tread.

And all the men and women of that land were fairer Than even the mightiest of our meaner race can be; The men like gentle children, great of limb, yet rarer For wisdom and high thought, like kings for majesty.

And all the women through great ages of bright living, Grown goodlier of stature, strong, and subtly wise, Stood equal with the men, calm counsellors, ever giving The fire and succour of proud faith and dauntless eyes.

And as I journeyed in that land I reached a ruin, The gateway of a lonely and secluded waste, A phantom of forgotten time and ancient doing, Eaten by age and violence, crumbled and defaced.

On its grim outer walls the ancient world's sad glories Were recorded in fire; upon its inner stone, Drawn by dead hands, I saw, in tales and tragic stories, The woe and sickness of an age of fear made known.

And lo, in that grey storehouse, fallen to dust and rotten, Lay piled the traps and engines of forgotten greed, The tomes of codes and canons, long disused, forgotten, The robes and sacred books of many a vanished creed.

An old grave man I found, white-haired and gently spoken, Who, as I questioned, answered with a smile benign, 'Long years have come and gone since these poor gauds were broken, Broken and banished from a life made more divine.

'But still we keep them stored as once our sires deemed fitting, The symbol of dark days and lives remote and strange, Lest o'er the minds of any there should come unwitting The thought of some new order and the lust of change.

'If any grow disturbed, we bring them gently hither, To read the world's grim record and the sombre lore Massed in these pitiless vaults, and they returning thither, Bear with them quieter thoughts, and make for change no more.'

And thence I journeyed on by one broad way that bore me Out of that waste, and as I passed by tower and town I saw amid the limitless plain far out before me A long low mountain, blue as beryl, and its crown

Was capped by marble roofs that shone like snow for whiteness, Its foot was deep in gardens, and that blossoming plain Seemed in the radiant shower of its majestic brightness A land for gods to dwell in, free from care and pain.

And to and forth from that fair mountain like a river Ran many a dim grey road, and on them I could see A multitude of stately forms that seemed for ever Going and coming in bright bands; and near to me

Was one that in his journey seemed to dream and linger, Walking at whiles with kingly step, then standing still, And him I met and asked him, pointing with my finger, The meaning of the palace and the lofty hill.

Whereto the dreamer: 'Art thou of this land, my brother, And knowest not the mountain and its crest of walls, Where dwells the priestless worship of the all-wise mother? That is the hill of Pallas; those her marble halls!

'There dwell the lords of knowledge and of thought increasing, And they whom insight and the gleams of song uplift; And thence as by a hundred conduits flows unceasing The spring of power and beauty, an eternal gift.'

Still I passed on until I reached at length, not knowing Whither the tangled and diverging paths might lead, A land of baser men, whose coming and whose going Were urged by fear, and hunger, and the curse of greed.

I saw the proud and fortunate go by me, faring In fatness and fine robes, the poor oppressed and slow, The faces of bowed men, and piteous women bearing The burden of perpetual sorrow and the stamp of woe.

And tides of deep solicitude and wondering pity Possessed me, and with eager and uplifted hands I drew the crowd about me in a mighty city, And taught the message of those other kindlier lands.

I preached the rule of Faith and brotherly Communion, The law of Peace and Beauty and the death of Strife, And painted in great words the horror of disunion, The vainness of self-worship, and the waste of life.

I preached, but fruitlessly; the powerful from their stations Rebuked me as an anarch, envious and bad, And they that served them with lean hands and bitter patience Smiled only out of hollow orbs, and deemed me mad.

And still I preached, and wrought, and still I bore my message, For well I knew that on and upward without cease The spirit works for ever, and by Faith and Presage That somehow yet the end of human life is Peace.

AMONG THE ORCHARDS

Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry Dense weights of heat press down. The large bright drops Shrink in the leaves. From dark acacia tops The nuthatch flings his short reiterate cry; And ever as the sun mounts hot and high Thin voices crowd the grass. In soft long strokes The wind goes murmuring through the mountain oaks. Faint wefts creep out along the blue and die. I hear far in among the motionless trees-- Shadows that sleep upon the shaven sod-- The thud of dropping apples. Reach on reach Stretch plots of perfumed orchard, where the bees Murmur among the full-fringed golden-rod, Or cling half-drunken to the rotting peach.

THE POET'S SONG

I

There came no change from week to week On all the land, but all one way, Like ghosts that cannot touch nor speak, Day followed day.

Within the palace court the rounds Of glare and shadow, day and night, Went ever with the same dull sounds, The same dull flight:

The motion of slow forms of state, The far-off murmur of the street, The din of couriers at the gate, Half-mad with heat;

Sometimes a distant shout of boys At play upon the terrace walk, The shutting of great doors, and noise Of muttered talk.

In one red corner of the wall, That fronted with its granite stain The town, the palms, and, beyond all, The burning plain,

As listless as the hour, alone, The poet by his broken lute Sat like a figure in the stone, Dark-browed and mute.

He saw the heat on the thin grass Fall till it withered joint by joint, The shadow on the dial pass From point to point.

He saw the midnight bright and bare Fill with its quietude of stars The silence that no human prayer Attains or mars.

He heard the hours divide, and still The sentry on the outer wall Make the night wearier with his shrill Monotonous call.

He watched the lizard where it lay, Impassive as the watcher's face; And only once in the long day It changed its place.

Sometimes with clank of hoofs and cries The noon through all its trance was stirred; The poet sat with half-shut eyes, Nor saw, nor heard.

And once across the heated close Light laughter in a silver shower Fell from fair lips: the poet rose And cursed the hour.

Men paled and sickened; half in fear, There came to him at dusk of eve One who but murmured in his ear And plucked his sleeve:

'The king is filled with irks, distressed, And bids thee hasten to his side; For thou alone canst give him rest.' The poet cried:

'Go, show the king this broken lute! Even as it is, so am I! The tree is perished to its root, The fountain dry.

'What seeks he of the leafless tree, The broken lute, the empty spring? Yea, tho' he give his crown to me, I cannot sing!'

II

That night there came from either hand A sense of change upon the land; A brooding stillness rustled through With creeping winds that hardly blew; A shadow from the looming west, A stir of leaves, a dim unrest; It seemed as if a spell had broke.

And then the poet turned and woke As from the darkness of a dream, And with a smile divine supreme Drew up his mantle fold on fold, And strung his lute with strings of gold, And bound the sandals to his feet, And strode into the darkling street.

Through crowds of murmuring men he hied, With working lips and swinging stride, And gleaming eyes and brow bent down; Out of the great gate of the town He hastened ever and passed on, And ere the darkness came, was gone, A mote beyond the western swell.

And then the storm arose and fell From wheeling shadows black with rain That drowned the hills and strode the plain; Round the grim mountain-heads it passed, Down whistling valleys blast on blast, Surged in upon the snapping trees, And swept the shuddering villages.

That night, when the fierce hours grew long, Once more the monarch, old and grey, Called for the poet and his song, And called in vain. But far away, By the wild mountain-gorges, stirred, The shepherds in their watches heard, Above the torrent's charge and clang, The cleaving chant of one that sang.

A THUNDERSTORM

A moment the wild swallows like a flight Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high, Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky. The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight, The hurrying centres of the storm unite And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe, Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed, And pelted waters, on the vanished plain Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash, Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed, Column on column comes the drenching rain.

THE CITY

Canst thou not rest, O city, That liest so wide and fair; Shall never an hour bring pity, Nor end be found for care?

Thy walls are high in heaven, Thy streets are gay and wide, Beneath thy towers at even The dreamy waters glide.

Thou art fair as the hills at morning, And the sunshine loveth thee, But its light is a gloom of warning On a soul no longer free.

The curses of gold are about thee, And thy sorrow deepeneth still; One madness within and without thee, One battle blind and shrill.

I see the crowds for ever Go by with hurrying feet; Through doors that darken never I hear the engines beat.

Through days and nights that follow The hidden mill-wheel strains; In the midnight's windy hollow I hear the roar of trains.

And still the day fulfilleth, And still the night goes round, And the guest-hall boometh and shrilleth, With the dance's mocking sound.

In chambers of gold elysian, The cymbals clash and clang, But the days are gone like a vision When the people wrought and sang.

And toil hath fear for neighbour, Where singing lips are dumb, And life is one long labour, Till death or freedom come.

Ah! the crowds that for ever are flowing-- They neither laugh nor weep-- I see them coming and going, Like things that move in sleep:

Grey sires and burdened brothers, The old, the young, the fair, Wan cheeks of pallid mothers, And the girls with golden hair.

Care sits in many a fashion, Grown grey on many a head, And lips are turned to ashen Whose years have right to red.

Canst thou not rest, O city, That liest so wide, so fair; Shalt never an hour bring pity, Nor end be found for care?

SAPPHICS

Clothed in splendour, beautifully sad and silent, Comes the autumn over the woods and highlands, Golden, rose-red, full of divine remembrance, Full of foreboding.

Soon the maples, soon will the glowing birches, Stripped of all that summer and love had dowered them, Dream, sad-limbed, beholding their pomp and treasure Ruthlessly scattered:

Yet they quail not: Winter with wind and iron Comes and finds them silent and uncomplaining, Finds them tameless, beautiful still and gracious, Gravely enduring.

Me too changes, bitter and full of evil, Dream by dream have plundered and left me naked, Grey with sorrow. Even the days before me Fade into twilight,

Mute and barren. Yet will I keep my spirit Clear and valiant, brother to these my noble Elms and maples, utterly grave and fearless, Grandly ungrieving.

Brief the span is, counting the years of mortals, Strange and sad; it passes, and then the bright earth, Careless mother, gleaming with gold and azure, Lovely with blossoms--

Shining white anemones, mixed with roses, Daisies mild-eyed, grasses and honeyed clover-- You, and me, and all of us, met and equal, Softly shall cover.

VOICES OF EARTH

We have not heard the music of the spheres, The song of star to star, but there are sounds More deep than human joy and human tears, That Nature uses in her common rounds; The fall of streams, the cry of winds that strain The oak, the roaring of the sea's surge, might Of thunder breaking afar off, or rain That falls by minutes in the summer night. These are the voices of earth's secret soul, Uttering the mystery from which she came. To him who hears them grief beyond control, Or joy inscrutable without a name, Wakes in his heart thoughts bedded there, impearled, Before the birth and making of the world.

PECCAVI, DOMINE

O Power to whom this earthly clime Is but an atom in the whole, O Poet-heart of Space and Time, O Maker and Immortal Soul, Within whose glowing rings are bound, Out of whose sleepless heart had birth The cloudy blue, the starry round, And this small miracle of earth:

Who liv'st in every living thing, And all things are thy script and chart, Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing, And yearnest in the human heart; O Riddle with a single clue, Love, deathless, protean, secure, The ever old, the ever new, O Energy, serene and pure.

Thou, who art also part of me, Whose glory I have sometime seen, O Vision of the Ought-to-be, O Memory of the Might-have-been, I have had glimpses of thy way, And moved with winds and walked with stars, But, weary, I have fallen astray, And, wounded, who shall count my scars?

O Master, all my strength is gone; Unto the very earth I bow; I have no light to lead me on; With aching heart and burning brow, I lie as one that travaileth In sorrow more than he can bear; I sit in darkness as of death, And scatter dust upon my hair.

The God within my soul hath slept, And I have shamed the nobler rule; O Master, I have whined and crept; O Spirit, I have played the fool. Like him of old upon whose head His follies hung in dark arrears, I groan and travail in my bed, And water it with bitter tears.

I stand upon thy mountain-heads, And gaze until mine eyes are dim; The golden morning glows and spreads; The hoary vapours break and swim. I see thy blossoming fields, divine, Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees-- And then that broken soul of mine-- How much less beautiful than these!

O Spirit, passionless, but kind, Is there in all the world, I cry, Another one so base and blind, Another one so weak as I? O Power, unchangeable, but just, Impute this one good thing to me, I sink my spirit to the dust In utter dumb humility.

AN ODE TO THE HILLS

'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.'--PSALM CXXI. 1.

Æons ago ye were, Before the struggling changeful race of man Wrought into being, ere the tragic stir Of human toil and deep desire began: So shall ye still remain, Lords of an elder and immutable race, When many a broad metropolis of the plain, Or thronging port by some renownèd shore, Is sunk in nameless ruin, and its place Recalled no more.

Empires have come and gone, And glorious cities fallen in their prime; Divine, far-echoing, names once writ in stone Have vanished in the dust and void of time; But ye, firm-set, secure, Like Treasure in the hardness of God's palm, Are yet the same for ever; ye endure By virtue of an old slow-ripening word, In your grey majesty and sovereign calm, Untouched, unstirred.

Tempest and thunderstroke, With whirlwinds dipped in midnight at the core, Have torn strange furrows through your forest cloak, And made your hollow gorges clash and roar, And scarred your brows in vain. Around your barren heads and granite steeps Tempestuous grey battalions of the rain Charge and recharge, across the plateaued floors, Drenching the serried pines; and the hail sweeps Your pitiless scaurs.

The long midsummer heat Chars the thin leafage of your rocks in fire: Autumn with windy robe and ruinous feet On your wide forests wreaks his fell desire, Heaping in barbarous wreck The treasure of your sweet and prosperous days; And lastly the grim tyrant, at whose beck Channels are turned to stone and tempests wheel, On brow and breast and shining shoulder lays His hand of steel.

And yet not harsh alone, Nor wild, nor bitter are your destinies, O fair and sweet, for all your heart of stone, Who gather beauty round your Titan knees, As the lens gathers light. The dawn gleams rosy on your splendid brows, The sun at noonday folds you in his might, And swathes your forehead at his going down, Last leaving, where he first in pride bestows, His golden crown.

In unregarded glooms, Where hardly shall a human footstep pass, Myriads of ferns and soft maianthemums, Or lily-breathing slender pyrolas Distil their hearts for you. Far in your pine-clad fastnesses ye keep Coverts the lonely thrush shall wander through, With echoes that seem ever to recede, Touching from pine to pine, from steep to steep, His ghostly reed.