Part 3

_Truth has remembering eyes._ _The wind-blown throng will clamour at Falsehood’s gate._ _Has Falsehood triumphed? Let the world despise_ _Thy constant mind. Stand thou aside, and wait._

_Write not thy thoughts on snow._ _Grave them in rock to front the thundering sky._ _From Time’s proud feast, when it is time to go,_ _Take the dark road; bid one more world good-bye._

_The lie may steal an hour._ _The truth has living roots, and they strike deep._ _A moment’s glory kills the rootless flower,_ _While the true stem is gathering strength in sleep._

_Out of this earth, this dust,_ _Out of this flesh, this blood, this living tomb;_ _Out of these cosmic throes of wrath, and lust,_ _Breaks the lost splendour from the world’s blind womb._

_Courage, O conquering soul!_ _For all the boundless night that whelms thee now,_ _Though suns and stars into oblivion roll,_ _The gods abide, and of their race art thou._

II. THE EXILE

Time dwindled to a shadow. The grey mist, Wreathed with old legends, drifted slowly away From the clear hill-top, where the invisible wings Had brought me through the years. It was no dream, Clearly, as in a picture, at my feet, Among dark groves, the columned temples gleamed, And I saw Athens, in the sunset, dying.

Dying; for though her shrines had not yet lost One radiant grain of what lies crumbling now Like a god’s bones upon the naked hills; Though the whole city wound through gate on gate Of visionary splendour to one height Where, throned above this world, the Parthenon Smiled at the thought of Time, her violet crown Was woven of shadows from a darker realm, And I saw Athens, dying. From that hill— The hill of Lycabettus—on our right Eridanus flowed, Ilissus on the left, Girdling the City like two coils of fire. Then, as a spirit sees, I saw, unseen, One standing near me on the bare hillside, Still as a statue, gazing to the west; So still that, till his lengthening shadow crept Up to my feet, the wonder of the City Withheld my gaze from something more august In that one lonely presence. Earth and sun, On their great way, revealed him, with the touch Of his long stealing shadow; yet it seemed The power that cast it was no mortal power. Fie towered against the dying gleams below Like Truth in exile. On him, too, at last The doom had fallen. Clasping his grey robe More closely round him, Aristotle looked Long, long, at his proud City. She had lost More glories in that sunset than she knew; For, though the sun went down in kingly gold To westward, on that darkening eastern hill, The bearer of a more celestial fire Now looked his last on Athens. Changed, how changed, Was this grey form from that immortal youth Who read the Golden Verses by the sea. His brow was furrowed now; and, on his face, Life, with her sharp-edged tools of joy and pain, Had deeply engraved a legend of her own.

There, as his lengthening shadow had drawn my gaze, He seemed himself a shadow of vaster things, A still dark portent of those moving worlds Whose huge events, unseen and far away, Had led him thither; and, as he once had shaped Their course, now shaped his destiny and doom.

He had ranged all art, all science. He had shaped Kingdoms and kings, by virtue of his part In the one all-shaping Mind. Had he not lived, The world that never knows its noblest powers Had moved, with half mankind, another way. There, looking backward, through his life, he knew That, though the gods conceal their ways from men, Yet in their great conjunctures there are gleams That show them at their work. Theirs was the word, Twenty years back, when Philip of Macedon Summoned him, as the uncrowned king of thought, To teach his eaglet how to use his wings. For, by that thought, and by the disciplined power, The sovran power of judgment, swift to seize Causes, effects, and laws, and wield the blind Unreasoning mass, he had wellnigh brought to birth What Plato saw in vision—a State enthroned Above the flux of time, Hellas at one, A harmony of cities, each a chord In an immortal song of Beauty and Truth, Freedom and Law. His was the moving power, Not wholly aware, that strove to an end unseen; And in that power had Alexander reigned. Autocrator of the Greek hegemony, He had rolled all Asia back into the night. Satraps of Persia, the proud kings of Tyre, Nineveh, Babylon, Egypt, all bowed down; And Alexander shaped the conquered world, But Aristotle shaped the conqueror’s mind. He had shaped that mind to ends not all its own. His was the well-thumbed Odyssey that reposed Under the conqueror’s pillow; his the love, Fragrant with memories of the hills and sea, That had rebuilt Stagira; his the voice In the night-watches; his the harnessed thoughts That, like immortal sentries, mounted guard In the dark gates of that world-quelling mind. His was the whisper, the dark vanishing hint, The clue to the riddle of slowly emerging life That, imaged in Egyptian granite, rose Before the silent conqueror when he stared At that strange shape, half human and half brute, The Sphinx, who knew the secret of the world And smiled at him, and all his victories, Under the desert stars, while the deep night Silently deepened round him. Far away, In Athens, towered the bearer of the fire. His was the secret harmony of law That, while the squadrons wheeled in ordered ranks, Each finding its full life only in the whole, Flashed light upon the cosmos; his the quest That taught the conqueror how to honour truth And led him, while he watered his proud steeds In all the streams from Danube to the Nile, To send another army through the wilds, Ten thousand huntsmen, ranging hills and woods At Aristotle’s hest, for birds and beasts; So that the master-intellect might lay hold Upon the ladder of life that mounts through Time, From plants to beasts, and up, through man, to God. So all the might of Macedon had been turned To serve the truth, and to complete his work At Athens, for the conquering age to come; When Athens, like the very City of Truth, Might shine upon all nations, and might wear, On her clear brows, his glory as her own.

Then came a flying rumour through the night. Earth’s overlord, the autocrator, his friend, Alexander the Great had fallen in Babylon. A little cup of poison, subtle drops Of Lethe—in a cup of delicate gold,— And the world’s victor slept, an iron sleep; The conqueror, stricken in his conquered city, Cold, in the purple of Babylon, lay dead: And the slow tread of his armies as they passed, Soldier by soldier, through that chamber of death, To look their last upon his marble face, Pulsed like a muffled drum across the world. Had Aristotle’s cunning mixed the draught That murdered tyranny? Let that whispered lie Estrange the heart of Macedon. There, in Athens, It was enough, now that his friend lay dead, To know that, as the body is rent away From the immortal soul, his greatness now Had lost its earthly stay. His mighty mind Walked like a ghost in Athens. It was enough To hint that he had taught his king too well; Served him too well; and played the spy for him; While, for main charge, since he had greatly loved The mother who had borne him, since he had poured His love out on her tomb, it would suffice To snarl that rites like these were meant for gods And that this man who had seen behind the world The Mover of all things, the eternal God, The supreme Good, by these fond rites of love, Too simple and too great, too clear, too deep, Had robbed the little sophists of their dues And so blasphemed against their gods of clay.

...

Hurrying footsteps neared. He turned and saw His young adopted son and Tyrtamus. “Nicanor! Theophrastus!—nay, lift up Your heads. You cannot bring me bitterer news Than I foresaw. I must be brought to judgment. But on what grounds?”— “Dear father of us all——” The youth, Nicanor, answered, “When the crowd Grins in the very face of those who ask, Or think, or dream that truth should be their guide; Nay, grins at truth itself, as at a fool Tricked in his grandsire’s rags, a rustic oaf, A blundering country simpleton who gapes At the great city’s reeling dance of lies, How can the grounds be wanting?” “The true grounds,” His ‘Theophrastus’ muttered, “we know too well. Eurymedon, and the rest, those gnat-like clans, The sophists’ buzzing swarms, desire a change. They hold with Heraclitus—all things change.” His irony stung the youth. His grey eyes gleamed. His voice grew harsh with anger. “Ay, all things change! So justice and injustice, right and wrong, Evil and good, must wear each other’s cloaks; And, in that chaos, when all excellence And honour are plucked down, and the clear truth Trampled into the dirt, themselves may rise. Athens is dying.” “They speak truly enough Of all that they can know,” the Master said. “Change is the rhythm that draws this world along. They see the change. Its law they cannot see. But man who is mortal in this body of earth Has also a part, by virtue of his reason, In an enduring realm. Their prophet knew And heard what sophists have no souls to hear,— The Harmony that includes the pulse of change; The divine Reason, past the flux of things; The eternal Logos, ordering the whole world.” And, as he spoke, I heard, through his own words, Tones that were now a part of his own mind, The murmur of that old legend which he read So long ago, in boyhood, by the sea. _Time never fails. Not Tanais or the Nile_ _Can flow for ever. All things pass away_ _But One, One only; for the eternal Mind_ _Enfolds all changes, and can never change._ Tyrtamus touched his arm. “Time presses now. Come with us. All is ready. On the coast, In a lonely creek, the quiet keel is rocking. Three trusty sailors wait us, and at dawn We, too, shall find new life in a new world With all that could endure. The voyager knows The blindness of the cities. Each believes Its narrow wall the boundary of the world; And when he puts to sea, their buzzing cries Fade out behind him like a wrangle of bees.”—

“If I remain, what then?”— The hill-top shone In the last rays. Athens was growing dark. Tyrtamus answered him. “A colder cup Of hemlock, and the fate of Socrates.” The Master looked at Athens. Far away He traced the glimmering aisle of olive-trees Where, for so long, with many a youthful friend He had walked, and taught, and striven himself to learn. Southward, below the Acropolis, he could see The shadowy precincts of the Asclepiads, Guarding their sacred spring, the natural fount, Loved for his father’s memory. Close beside, The Dionysiac theatre, like a moon Hewn from the marble of Hymettus, gleamed, A silvery crescent, dying into a cloud. There, though the shade of Sophocles had fled, Long since, he heard even now in his deep soul The stately chorus on a ghostly stage Chanting the praise of thought that builds the city, Hoists the strong sail to cross the hoary sea, Ploughs the unwearied earth, yokes the wild steed And the untamed mountain-bull; thought that contrives Devices that can cure all ills but death:

_Of all strong things none is more strong than man;_ _Man that has learned to shield himself from cold_ _And the sharp rain; and turns his marvellous arts_ _Awhile to evil; and yet again, to good;_ _Man that is made all-glorious with his city_ _When he obeys the inviolable laws_ _Of earth and heaven; but when, in subtle pride,_ _He makes a friend of wrong, is driven astray_ _And broken apart, like dust before the wind._

All now, except the heights, had died away Into the dark. Only the Parthenon raised A brow like drifted snow against the west. He watched it, melting into the flood of night With all those memories. Then he turned and said, “If in a moment’s thoughtless greed I grasped The prize that Athens offers me to-night, She is not so rich but this might make her poor. Death wears a gentle smile when we grow old; And I could welcome it. But she shall not stain Her hands a second time. Let Athens know That Aristotle left her, not to save His last few lingering days of life on earth But to save Athens. I have truly loved her, Next to the sea-washed town where I was born, Best of all cities built by men on earth. But there’s another Athens, pure and white, Where Plato walks, a City invisible, Whereof this Athens is only a dim shadow; And I shall not be exiled from that City.”

The hilltop darkened. The blind mist rolled down; The voices died. I saw and heard no more.

III—MOVING EASTWARD

I

FARABI AND AVICENNA

_Grey mists enfolded Europe; and I heard_ _Sounds of bewildered warfare in the gloom._

_Yet, like a misty star, one lampad moved_ _Eastward, beyond the mountains where of old_ _Prometheus, in whose hand the fire first shone,_ _Was chained in agony. His undying ghost_ _Beheld the fire returning on its course_ _Unquenched, and smiled from his dark crag in peace,_ _Implacable peace, at heaven._ _Eastward, the fire_ _Followed the road Pythagoras trod, to meet_ _The great new morning._ _The grey mists dissolved._ _And was it I—or Shadow-of-a-Leaf—that saw_ _And heard, and lived through all he showed me then?_

I saw a desert blazing in the sun, Tufts of tall palm; and then—that City of dreams. As though an age went past me in an hour I saw the silken Khalifs and their court Flowing like orient clouds along the streets Of Bagdad. In great Mahmoun’s train I saw Nazzam, who from the Stagirite caught his fire. Long had he pondered on the Eternal Power Who, in the dark palm of His timeless hand Rolls the whole cosmos like one gleaming pearl. Had he not made, in one pure timeless thought, All things at once, the last things with the first, The first life with the last; so that mankind, Through all its generations, co-exists For His eternal eyes? Yet, from our own Who in the time-sphere move, the Maker hides The full revolving glory, and unfolds The glimmering miracles of its loveliness Each at its destined moment, one by one, In an æonian pageant that returns For ever to the night whence it began. Thus Nazzam bowed before the inscrutable Power, Yet found Him in his own time-conquering soul.

I saw the hundred scribes of El Mansour Making their radiant versions from the Greek. I saw Farabi, moving through the throng Like a gaunt chieftain. His world-ranging eyes Beheld the Cause of causes. In his mind, Lucid and deep, the reasoning of the Greeks Flooded the world with new celestial light, Golden interpretations that made clear To mighty shades the thing they strove to say.

He carried on their fire, with five-score books In Arabic, where the thoughts of Athens, fledged With orient colours, towered to the pure realm Of Plato; but, returning earthward still, Would wheel around his Aristotle’s mind Like doves around the cote where they were born. Then the dark mists that round the vision flowed Like incense-clouds, dividing scene from scene, Rolled back from a wide prospect, and I saw, As one that mounts upon an eagle’s wing, A savage range of mountains, peaked with snow, To northward. They glowed faintly, for the day Was ending, and the shadows of the rocks Were stretched out to the very feet of night. Yet, far away, to southward, I could see The swollen Oxus, like a vanishing snake That slid away in slippery streaks and gleams Through his grey reed-beds to the setting sun. Earthward we moved; and, in the tawny plain, Before me, like a lanthorn of dark fire Bokhara shone, a city of shadowy towers Crimsoned with sunset. In its turreted walls I saw eleven gates, and all were closed Against the onrushing night. Then, at my side, My soul’s companion whispered, “You shall see The Gates of Knowledge opening here anew. Here Avicenna dwelt in his first youth.”

At once, as on the very wings of night, We entered. In the rustling musky gloom Of those hot streets, thousands of falcon eyes Were round us; but our shadows passed unseen Into the glimmering palace of the Prince Whom Avicenna, when all others failed, Restored to life, and claimed for all reward Freedom to use the Sultan’s library, The pride of El Mansour; a wasted joy To the new Sultan. Radiances were there Imprisoned like the innumerable slaves Of one too wealthy even to know their names; Beautiful Grecian captives, bought with gold From tawny traffickers in the Ionian sea. A shadow, with a shadow at my side, I saw him reading there, intent and still, Under a silver lamp; his dusky brow Wreathed with white silk, a goblet close at hand Brimmed with a subtle wine that could uncloud The closing eyes of Sleep. Along each wall Great carven chests of fragrant cedar-wood Released the imprisoned magic,—radiant scrolls, Inscribed with wisdom’s earliest wonder-cry; Dark lore; the secrets of the Asclepiads; History wild as legend; legends true As history, all being shadows of one light; Philosophies of earth and heaven; and rhymes That murmured still of their celestial springs. He thrust his book aside, as in despair. Our shadows followed him through the swarming streets Into the glimmering mosque. I saw him bowed Prostrate in prayer for light, light on a page Of subtle-minded Greek which many a day Had baffled him, when he sought therein the mind Of his forerunner. I saw him as he rose; And, as by chance, at the outer gates he met A wandering vendor of old tattered books Who, for three dirhems, offered him a prize. He bought it, out of gentle heart, and found A wonder on every page,—Farabi’s work, Flooding his Greek with light. He could not see What intricate law had swept it into his hand; But, having more than knowledge, he returned Through the dark gates of prayer; and, pouring out His alms upon the poor, lifted his heart In silent thanks to God.

II

AVICENNA’S DREAM

But all these books—for him—were living thoughts, Clues to the darker Book of Nature’s law; For, when he climbed, a goat-foot boy, in Spring Up through the savage Hissar range, he saw A hundred gorges thundering at his feet With snow-fed cataracts; torrents whose fierce flight Uprooted forests, tore great boulders down, Ground the huge rocks together; and every year Channelled raw gullies and swept old scars away; So that the wildered eagle beating up To seek his last year’s eyry, found that all Was new and strange; and even the tuft of pines That used to guide him to his last year’s nest Had vanished from the crags he knew no more.

There, pondering on the changes of the world, Young Avicenna, with a kinglier eye, Saw in the lapse of ages the great hills Melting away like waves; and, from the sea, New lands arising; and the whole dark earth Dissolving, and reshaping all its realms Around him, like a dream. Thus of his hills And of their high snows flowing through his thoughts Was born the tale that afterwards was told By golden-tongued Kazwini, and wafted thence Through many lands, from Tartary to Pameer. For, cross-legged, in the shadow of a palm, The hawk-eyed teller of tales, in years unborn Holding his wild clan spell-bound, would intone The deep melodious legend, flowing thus, As all the world flows, through the eternal mind.

I came one day upon an ancient City. I saw the long white crescent of its wall Stained with thin peach-blood, blistered by the sun.

I saw beyond it, clustering in the sky, Ethereal throngs of ivory minarets, Tall slender towers, each crowned with one bright pearl.

It was no desert phantom; for it grew And sharpened as I neared it, till I saw, Under the slim carved windows in the towers, The clean-cut shadows, forked and black and small Like clinging swallows. In the midst up-swam The Sultan’s palace with its faint blue domes, The moons of morning. Wreaths of frankincense Floated around me as I entered in. A thousand thousand warrior faces thronged The glimmering streets. Blood-rubies burned like stars In shadowy silks and turbans of all hues.

The markets glowed with costly merchandise. I saw proud stallions, pacing to and fro Before the rulers of a hundred kings. I saw, unrolled beneath the slender feet Of slave-girls, white as April’s breathing snow, Soft prayer-rugs of a subtler drift of bloom Than flows with sunset over the blue and grey And opal of the drifting desert sand.

Princes and thieves, philosophers and fools Jostled together, among hot scents of musk. Dark eyes were flashing. Blood throbbed darker yet. Lean dusky fingers groped for hilts of jade. Then, with a roll of drums, through Eastern gates, Out of the dawn, and softer than its clouds, Tall camels, long tumultuous caravans, Like stately ships came slowly stepping in, Loaded with shining plunder from Cathay. I turned and asked my neighbour in the throng Who built that city, and how long ago. He stared at me in wonder. “It is old, Older than any memory,” he replied. “Nor can our fathers’ oldest legend tell Who built so great a city.” I went my way. And in a thousand ages I returned, And found not even a stone of that great City, Not even a shadow of all that lust and pride. But only an old peasant gathering herbs Where once it stood, upon the naked plain.