BOOK III.

OLYMPUS.

But I, my gaze Following the soaring soul which now was lost In the awakening skies, floated with her, As in a trance, beyond the golden gates Which separate Earth from Heaven; and to my thought Gladdened by that broad effluence of light, This old earth seemed transfigured, and the fields, So dim and bare, grew green and clothed themselves With lustrous hues. A fine ethereal air Played round me as I mused, and filled the soul With an ineffable content. What need Of words to tell of things unreached by words? Or seek to engrave upon the treacherous thought The fair and fugitive fancies of a dream, Which vanish ere we fix them? But methinks He knows the scene, who knows the one fair day, One only and no more, which year by year In springtime comes, when lingering winter flies, And lo! the trees blossom in white and pink. And golden clusters, and the glades are filled With delicate primrose and deep odorous beds Of violets, and on the tufted meads With kingcups starred, and cowslip bells, and blue Sweet hyacinths, and frail anemones, The broad West wind breathes softly, and the air Is tremulous with the lark, and thro' the woods The soft full-throated thrushes all day long Flood the green dells with joy, and thro' the dry Brown fields the sower strides, sowing his seed, And all is life and song. Or he who first, Whether in fair free boyhood, when the world Is his to choose, or when his fuller life Beats to another life, or afterwards, Keeping his youth within his children's eyes, Looks on the snow-clad everlasting hills, And marks the sunset smite them, and is glad Of the beautiful fair world. A springtide land It seemed, where East winds came not. Sweetest song Was everywhere, by glade or sunny plain; And thro' the golden valleys winding streams Rippled in glancing silver, and above, The blue hills rose, and over all a peak, White, awful, with a constant fleece of cloud Veiling its summit, towered. Unfailing Day Lighted it, for no turn of dawn and eve Came there, nor changing seasons, but a broad Fixed joy of Being, undisturbed by Time.

There, in a happy glade shut in by groves Of laurel and sweet myrtle, on a green And flower-lit lawn, I seemed to see the ghosts Of the old gods. Upon the gentle slope Of a fair hill, a joyous company, The Immortals lay. Hard by, a murmurous stream Fell through the flowers; below them, space on space, Laughed the immeasurable plains; beyond, The mystic mountain soared. Height after height Of bare rock ledges left the climbing pines, And reared their giddy, shining terraces Into the ethereal air. Above, the snows Of the white summit cleft the fleece of cloud Which always clothed it round. Ah, fail-and sweet, Yet with a ghostly fairness, fine and thin, Those godlike Presences. Not dreams indeed, But something dream-like, were they. Blessed Shades Heroic and Divine, as when, in days When Man was young, and Time, the vivid thought Translated into Form the unattained Impossible Beauty of men's dreams, and fixed The Loveliness in marble. As with awe Following my spotless guide, I stood apart, Not daring to draw near; a shining form Rose from the throng, and floated, light as air, To where I trembled. And I knew the face And form of Artemis, the fair, the pure, The undefiled. A crescent silvery moon Shone thro' her locks, and by her side she bore A quiver of golden darts. At sight of whom I felt a sudden chill, like his who once Looked upon her and died; yet could not fear, Seeing how fair she was. Her sweet voice rang Clear as a bird's: "Mortal, what fate hath brought Thee hither, uncleansed by death? How canst thou breathe Immortal air, being mortal? Yet fear not, Since thou art come. For we too are of earth Whom here thou seest: there were not a heaven Were there no earth, nor gods, had men not been, But each the complement of each and grown The other's creature, is and has its being, A double essence, Human and Divine. So that the God is hidden in the man, And something Human bounds and forms the God; Which else had shown too great and undefined For mortal sight, and having no human eye To see it, were unknown. But we who bore Sway of old time, we were but attributes [3]Of the great God who is all Things that be-- The Pillar of the Earth and starry Sky, The Depth of the great Deep; the Sun, the Moon, The Word which Makes; the All-compelling Love-- For all Things lie within His Infinite Form."

Even as she spake, a throng of heavenly forms Floated around me, filling all my soul With fair unearthly beauty, and the air With such ambrosial perfume as is born. When morning bursts upon a tropic sea, From boundless wastes of flowers; and as I knelt In rapture, lo! the same clear voice again From out the throng of gods: "Those whom thou seest Were even as I, embodiments of Him Who is the Centre of all Life: myself The Maiden-Queen of Purity; and Strength, Divine when unabused; Love too, the Spring And Cause of Things; and Knowledge, which lays bare Their secret; and calm Duty, Queen of all, And Motherhood in one; and Youth, which bears, Beauty of Form and Life and Light, and breathes The breath of Inspiration; and the Soul, The particle of God, sent down to man, Which doth in turn reveal the world and God.

Wherefore it is men called on Artemis, The refuge of young souls; for still in age They keep some dim reflection uneffaced Of a Diviner Purity than comes To the spring days of youth, when all the world Smiles, and the rapid blood thro' the young veins Courses, and all is glad; yet knowing too That innocence is young--before the soil And smirch of sadder knowledge, settling on it, Sully its primal whiteness. So they knelt At my white shrines, the eager vigorous youths, To whom life's road showed like a dewy field In early summer dawns, when to the sound Of youth's clear voice, and to the cheerful rush Of the tumultuous feet and clamorous tongues Careering onwards, fair and dappled fawns, Strange birds with jewelled plumes, fierce spotted pards, Rise in the joyous chase, to be caught and bound By the young conqueror; nor yet the charm Of sensual ease allures. And they knelt too, The pure sweet maidens fair and fancy-free, Whose innocent virgin hearts shrank from the touch Of passion as from wrong--sweet moonlit lives Which fade, and pale, and vanish, in the glare Of Love's hot noontide: these came robed in white, With holy hymns and soaring liturgies: And so men fabled me, a huntress now, Borne thro' the flying woodlands, fair and free; And now the pale cold Moon, Light without warmth, Zeal without touch of passion, heavenly love For human, and the altar for the home.

But oh, how sweet it was to take the love And awe of my young worshippers; to watch The pure young gaze and hear the pure young voice Mount in the hymn, or see the gay troop come With the first dawn of day, brushing the dew From the unpolluted fields, and wake to song The slumbering birds; strong in their innocence! I did not envy any goddess of all The Olympian company her votaries! Ah, happy days of old which now are gone! A memory and a dream! for now on earth I rule no longer o'er young willing hearts In voluntary fealty, which should cease When Love, with fiery accents calling, woke The slumbering soul; as now it should for those Who kneel before the purer, sadder shrine Which has replaced my own. But ah! too oft, Not always, but too often, shut from life Within pale life-long cloisters and the bars Of deadly convent prisons, year by year, Age after age, the white souls fade and pine Which simulate the joyous service free Of those young worshippers. I would that I Might loose the captives' chain; or Herakles, Who was a mortal once."

But he who stood Colossal at my side: "I toil no more On earth, nor wield again the mighty strength Which Zeus once gave me for the cure of ill. I have run my race; I have done my work; I rest For ever from the toilsome days I gave To the suffering race of men. And yet, indeed, Methinks they suffer still. Tyrannous growths And monstrous vex them still. Pestilence lurks And sweeps them down. Treacheries come, and wars, And slay them still. Vaulting ambition leaps And falls in bloodshed still. But I am here At rest, and no man kneels to me, or keeps Reverence for strength mighty yet unabused-- Strength which is Power, God's choicest gift, more rare And precious than all Beauty, or the charm Of Wisdom, since it is the instrument Thro' which all Nature works. For now the earth Is full of meekness, and a new God rules, Teaching strange precepts of humility And mercy and forgiveness. Yet I trow There is no lack of bloodshed and deceit And groanings, and the tyrant works his wrong Even as of old; but now there is no arm Like mine, made strong by Zeus, to beat him down, Him and his wrong together. Yet I know I am not all discrowned. The strong brave souls, The manly tender hearts, whom tale of wrong To woman or child, to all weak things and small, Fires like a blow; calling the righteous flush Of anger to the brow; knotting the cords Of muscle on the arm; with one desire To hew the spoiler down, and make an end, And go their way for others; making light Of toil and pain, and too laborious days, And peril; beat unchanged, albeit they serve A Lord of meekness. For the world still needs Its champion as of old, and finds him still. Not always now with mighty sinews and thews Like mine, though still these profit, but keen brain And voice to move men's souls to love the right And hate the wrong; even tho' the bodily form Be weak, of giant strength, strong to assail The hydra heads of Evil, and to slay The monsters that now waste them: Ignorance, Self-seeking, coward fears, the hate of Man, Disguised as love of God. These there are still With task as hard as mine. For what was it To strive with bodily ills, and do great deeds Of daring and of strength, and bear the crown, To his who wages lifelong, doubtful strife With an impalpable foe; conquering indeed, But, ere he hears the pæan or sees the pomp Laid low in the arms of Death? And tho' men cease To worship at my shrine, yet not the less I hold, it is the toils I knew, the pains I bore for others, which have kept the heart Of manhood undefiled, and nerved the arm Of sacrifice, and made the martyr strong To do and bear, and taught the race of men How godlike 'tis to suffer thro' life, and die At last for others' good!" The strong god ceased, And stood a little, musing; blest indeed, But bearing, as it seemed, some faintest trace Of earthly struggle still, not the gay ease Of the elder heaven-born gods.

And then there came Beauty and Joy in one, bearing the form Of woman. How to reach with halting words That infinite Perfection? All have known The breathing marbles which the Greek has left Who saw her near, and strove to fix her charms, And exquisitely failed; or those fair forms The Painter offered at a later shrine, And failed. Nay, what are words?--he knows it well Who loves, or who has loved. She with a smile Playing around her rosy lips; as plays The sunbeam on a stream: "Shall I complain Men kneel to me no longer, taking to them Some graver, sterner worship; grown too wise For fleeting joys of Love? Nay, Love is Youth, And still the world is young. Still shall I reign Within the hearts of men, while Time shall last And Life renews itself. All Life that is, From the weak things of earth or sea or air, Which creep or float for an hour; to godlike man-- All know me and are mine. I am the source And mother of all, both gods and men; the spring Of Force and Joy, which, penetrating all Within the hidden depths of the Unknown, Sets the blind seed of Being, and from the bond Of incomplete and dual Essences Evolves the harmony which is Life. The world Were dead without my rays, who am the Light Which vivifies the world. Nay, but for me, The universal order which attracts Sphere unto sphere, and keeps them in their paths For ever, were no more. All things are bound Within my golden chain, whose name is Love.

And if there be, indeed, some sterner souls Or sunk in too much learning, or hedged round By care and greed, or haply too much rapt By pale ascetic fervours, to delight To kneel to me, the universal voice Scorns them as those who, missing willingly The good that Nature offers, dwell unblest Who might be blest, but would not. Every voice Of bard in every age has hymned me. All The breathing marbles, all the heavenly hues Of painting, praise me. Even the loveless shades Of dim monastic cloisters show some gleam, Tho' faint, of me. Amid the busy throngs Of cities reign I, and o'er lonely plains, Beyond the ice-fields of the frozen North, And the warm waves of undiscovered seas.

For I was born out of the sparkling foam Which lights the crest of the blue mystic wave, Stirred by the wandering breath of Life's pure dawn From a young soul's calm depths. There, without voice, Stretched on the breathing curve of a young breast, Fluttering a little, fresh from the great deep Of life, and creamy as the opening rose, Naked I lie, naked yet unashamed, While youth's warm tide steals round me with a kiss, And floods each limb with fairness. Shame I know not-- Shame is for wrong, and not for innocence-- The veil which Error grasps to hide itself From the awful Eye. But I, I lie unveiled And unashamed--the livelong day I lie, The warm wave murmuring to me; and, all night, Hidden in the moonlit caves of happy Sleep, I dream until the morning and am glad.

Why should I seek to clothe myself, and hide The treasure of my Beauty? Shame may wait On those for whom 'twas given. The sties of sense Are none of mine; the brutish, loveless wrong, The venal charm, the simulated flush Of fleshly passion, they are none of mine, Only corruptions of me. Yet I know The counterfeit the stronger, since gross souls And brutish sway the earth; and yet I hold That sense itself is sacred, and I deem 'Twere better to grow soft and sink in sense Than gloat o'er blood and wrong. My kingdom is Over infinite grades of being. All breathing things, From the least crawling insect to the brute, From brute to man, confess me. Yet in man I find my worthiest worship. Where man is, A youth and a maid, a youth and a maid, nought else Is wanting for my temple. Every clime Kneels to me--the long breaker swells and falls Under the palms, mixed with the merry noise Of savage bridals, and the straight brown limbs Know me, and over all the endless plains I reign, and by the tents on the hot sand And sea-girt isles am queen, and on the side Of silent mountains, where the white cots gleam Upon the green hill pastures, and no sound But the thunder of the avalanche is borne To the listening rocks around; and in fair lands Where all is peace; where thro' the happy hush Of tranquil summer evenings, 'mid the corn, Or thro' cool arches of the gadding vines, The lovers stray together hand in hand, Hymning my praise; and by the stately streets Of echoing cities--over all the earth, Palace and cot, mountain and plain and sea, The burning South, the icy North, the old And immemorial East, the unbounded West, No new god comes to spoil me utterly-- All worship and are mine!" With a sweet smile Upon her rosy mouth, the goddess ceased; And when she spake no more, the silence weighed As heavy on my soul as when it takes Some gracious melody, and leaves the ear Unsatisfied and longing, till the fount Of sweetness springs again.

But while I stood Expectant, lo! a fair pale form drew near With front severe, and wide blue eyes which bore Mild wisdom in their gaze. Great purity Shone from her--not the young-eyed innocence Of her whom first I saw, but that which comes From wider knowledge, which restrains the tide Of passionate youth, and leads the musing soul By the calm deeps of Wisdom. And I knew My eyes had seen the fair, the virgin Queen, Who once within her shining Parthenon Beheld the sages kneel. She with clear voice And coldly sweet, yet with a softness too, As doth befit a virgin: "She does right To boast her sway, my sister, seeing indeed That all things are as by a double law, And from a double root the tree of Life Springs up to the face of heaven. Body and Soul, Matter and Spirit, lower joys of Sense And higher joys of Thought, I know that both Build up the shrine of Being. The brute sense Leaves man a brute; but, winged with soaring thought Mounts to high heaven. The unembodied spirit, Dwelling alone, unmated, void of sense, Is impotent. And yet I hold there is, Far off, but not too far for mortal reach, A calmer height, where, nearer to the stars, Thought sits alone and gazes with rapt gaze, A large-eyed maiden in a robe of white. Who brings the light of Knowledge down, and draws To her pontifical eyes a bridge of gold, Which spans from earth to heaven. For what were life, If things of sense were all, for those large souls And high, which grudging Nature has shut fast Within unlovely forms, or those from whom The circuit of the rapid gliding years Steals the brief gift of beauty? Shall we hold, With idle singers, all the treasure of hope Is lost with youth--swift-fleeting, treacherous youth, Which fades and flies before the ripening brain Crowns life with Wisdom's crown? Nay, even in youth, Is it not more to walk upon the heights Alone--the cold free heights--and mark the vale Lie breathless in the glare, or hidden and blurred By cloud and storm; or pestilence and war Creep on with blood and death; while the soul dwells Apart upon the peaks, outfronts the sun As the eagle does, and takes the coming dawn While all the vale is dark, and knows the springs Of tiny rivulets hurrying from the snows, Which soon shall swell to vast resistless floods, And feed the Oceans which divide the World?

Oh, ecstasy! oh, wonder! oh, delight! Which neither the slow-withering wear of Time, That takes all else--the smooth and rounded cheek Of youth; the lightsome step; the warm young heart Which beats for love or friend; the treasure of hope Immeasurable; the quick-coursing blood Which makes it joy to be,--ay, takes them all And leaves us naught--nor yet satiety Born of too full possession, takes or mars! Oh, fair delight of learning! which grows great And stronger and more keen, for slower limbs, And dimmer eyes and loneliness, and loss Of lower good--wealth, friendship, ay, and Love-- When the swift soul, turning its weary gaze From the old vanished joys, projects itself Into the void and floats in empty space, Striving to reach the mystic source of Things, The secrets of the earth and sea and air, The Law that holds the process of the suns, The awful depths of Mind and Thought; the prime Unfathomable mystery of God!

Is there, then, any who holds my worship cold And lifeless? Nay, but 'tis the light which cheers The waning life! Love thou thy love, brave youth! Cleave to thy love, fair maid! it is the Law Which dominates the world, that bids ye use Your nature; but, when now the fuller tide Slackens a little, turn your calmer eyes To the fair page of Knowledge. It is power I give, and power is precious. It is strength To live four-square, careless of outward shows, And self-sufficing. It is clearer sight To know the rule of life, the Eternal scheme; And, knowing it, to do and not to err, And, doing, to be blest." The calm voice soared Higher and higher to the close; the cold Clear accents, fired as by a hidden fire, Glowed into life and tenderness, and throbbed As with some spiritual ecstasy Sweeter than that of Love.

But as they died, I heard an ampler voice; and looking, marked A fair and gracious form. She seemed a Queen Who ruled o'er gods and men; the majesty Of perfect womanhood. No opening bud Of beauty, but the full consummate flower Was hers; and from her mild large eyes looked forth Gentle command, and motherhood, and home, And pure affection. Awe and reverence O'erspread me, as I knew my eyes had looked On sovereign Heré, mother of the gods.

She, with clear, rounded utterance, sweet and calm "I know Love's fruit is good and fair to see And taste, if any gain it, and I know How brief Life's Passion-tide, which when it ends May change to thirst for Knowledge, and I know How fair the realm of Mind, wherein the soul Thirsting to know, wings its impetuous way Beyond the bounds of Thought; and yet I hold There is a higher bliss than these, which fits A mortal life, compact of Body and Soul, And therefore double-natured--a calm path Which lies before the feet, thro' common ways And undistinguished crowds of toiling men, And yet is hard to tread, tho' seeming smooth, And yet, tho' level, earns a worthier crown.

For Knowledge is a steep which few may climb, While Duty is a path which all may tread. And if the Soul of Life and Thought be this, How best to speed the mighty scheme, which still Fares onward day by day--the Life of the World, Which is the sum of petty lives, that live And die so this may live--how then shall each Of that great multitude of faithful souls Who walk not on the heights, fulfil himself, But by the duteous Life which looks not forth Beyond its narrow sphere, and finds its work, And works it out; content, this done, to fall And perish, if Fate will, so the great Scheme Goes onward? Wherefore am I Queen in Heaven And Earth, whose realm is Duty, bearing rule More constant and more wide than those whose words Thou heardest last. Mine are the striving souls Of fathers toiling day by day obscure And unrewarded, save by their own hearts, Mid wranglings of the Forum or the mart; Who long for joys of Thought, and yet must toil Unmurmuring thro' dull lives from youth to age; Who haply might have worn instead the crown Of Honour and of Fame: mine the fair mothers Who, for the love of children and of home, When passion dies, expend their toilful years In loving labour sweetened by the sense Of Duty: mine the statesman who toils on Thro' vigilant nights and days, guiding his State. Yet finds no gratitude; and those white souls Who give themselves for others all their years In trivial tasks of Pity. The fine growths Of Man and Time are mine, and spend themselves For me and for the mystical End which lies Beyond their gaze and mine, and yet is good, Tho' hidden from men and gods. For as the flower Of the tiger-lily bright with varied hues Is for a day, then fades and leaves behind Fairness nor fruit, while the green tiny tuft Swells to the purple of the clustering grape Or golden waves of wheat; so lives of men Which show most splendid; fade and are deceased And leave no trace; while those, unmarked, unseen, Which no man recks of, rear the stately tree Of Knowledge, not for itself sought out, but found In the dusty ways of life--a fairer growth Than springs in cloistered shades; and from the sum Of Duty, blooms sweeter and more divine The fair ideal of the Race, than comes From glittering gains of Learning. Life, full life, Full-flowered, full-fruited, reared from homely earth, Rooted in duty, and thro' long calm years Bearing its load of healthful energies; Stretching its arms on all sides; fed with dews Of cheerful sacrifice, and clouds of care, And rain of useful tears; warmed by the sun Of calm affection, till it breathes itself In perfume to the heavens--this is the prize I hold most dear, more precious than the fruit Of Knowledge or of Love." The goddess ceased As dies some gracious harmony, the child Of wedded themes which single and alone Were discords, but united breathe a sound Sweet as the sounds of heaven.

And then stood forth The last of the gods I saw, the first in rank And dignity and beauty, the young god Who grows not old, the Light of Heaven and Earth, The Worker from afar, who sends the fire Of inspiration to the bard and bathes The world in hues of heaven--the golden link Between High God and Man. With a sweet voice Whose every note was sweetest melody-- The melody has fled, the words remain-- Apollo sang: "I know how fair the face Of Purity; I know the treasure of Strength; I know the charm of Love, the calmer grace Of Wisdom and of Duteous well-spent lives: And yet there is a loftier height than these.

There is a Height higher than mortal thought; There is a Love warmer than mortal love; There is a Life which taketh not its hues From Earth or earthly things; and so grows pure And higher than the petty cares of men, And is a blessed life and glorified.

Oh, white young souls, strain upward, upward still, Even to the heavenly source of Purity! Brave hearts, bear on and suffer! Strike for right, Strong arms, and hew down wrong! The world hath need Of all of you--the sensual wrongful world!

Hath need of you, and of thee too, fair Love. Oh, lovers, cling together! the old world Is full of Hate. Sweeten it; draw in one Two separate chords of Life; and from the bond Of twin souls lost in Harmony create A Fair God dwelling with you--Love, the Lord!

Waft yourselves, yearning souls, upon the stars; Sow yourselves on the wandering winds of space; Watch patient all your days, if your eyes take Some dim, cold ray of Knowledge. The dull world Hath need of you--the purblind, slothful world!

Live on, brave lives, chained to the narrow round Of Duty; live, expend yourselves, and make The orb of Being wheel onward steadfastly Upon its path--the Lord of Life alone Knows to what goal of Good; work on, live on: And yet there is a higher work than yours.

To have looked upon the face of the Unknown And Perfect Beauty. To have heard the voice Of Godhead in the winds and in the seas. To have known Him in the circling of the suns, And in the changeful fates and lives of men.

To be fulfilled with Godhead as a cup Filled with a precious essence, till the hand On marble or on canvas falling, leaves Celestial traces, or from reed or string Draws out faint echoes of the voice Divine That bring God nearer to a faithless world.

Or, higher still and fairer and more blest, To be His seer, His prophet; to be the voice Of the Ineffable Word; to be the glass Of the Ineffable Light, and bring them down To bless the earth, set in a shrine of Song.

For Knowledge is a barren tree and bare, Bereft of God, and Duty but a word, And Strength but Tyranny, and Love, Desire, And Purity a folly; and the Soul, Which brings down God to Man, the Light to the world; He is the Maker, and is blest, is blest!"

He ended, and I felt my soul grow faint With too much sweetness. In a mist of grace They faded, that bright company, and seemed To melt into each other and shape themselves Into new forms, and those fair goddesses Blent in a perfect woman--all the calm High motherhood of Heré, the sweet smile Of Cypris, fair Athené's earnest eyes, And the young purity of Artemis, Blent in a perfect woman; and in her arms, Fused by some cosmic interlacing curves Of Beauty into a new Innocence, A child with eyes divine, a little child, A little child--no more. And those great gods Of Power and Beauty left a heavenly form Strong not to act, but suffer; fair and meek, Not proud and eager; with soft eyes of grace, Not bold with joyous youth; and for the fire Of song, and for the happy careless life, A sorrowful pilgrimage--changed, yet the same Only Diviner far; and keeping still The Life God-lighted and the sacrifice.

And when these faded wholly, at my side, Tho' hidden before by those too-radiant forms, I was aware once more of her, my guide Psyche, who had not left me, floating near On golden wings; and all the plains of heaven Were left to us, me and my soul alone.

Then when my thought revived again, I said Whispering, "But Zeus I saw not, the prime Source And Sire of all the gods." And she, bent low With downcast eyes: "Nay. Thou hast seen of Him All that thine eyes can bear, in those fair forms Which are but parts of Him and are indeed Attributes of the Substance which supports The Universe of Things--the Soul of the World, The Stream which flows Eternal, from no Source Into no Sea, His Purity, His Strength, His Love, His Knowledge, His unchanging rule Of Duty, thou hast seen, only a part And not the whole, being a finite mind Too weak for infinite thought; nor, couldst thou see All of Him visible to mortal sight, Wouldst thou see all His essence, since the gods-- Glorified essences of Human mould, Who are but Zeus made visible to men-- See Him not wholly, only some thin edge And halo of His glory; nor know they What vast and unsuspected Universes Lie beyond thought, where yet He rules, like those Vast Suns we cannot see, round which our Sun Moves with his system, or those darker still Which not even thus we know, but yet exist Tho' no eye marks, nor thought itself, and lurk In the awful Depths of Space; or that which is Not orbed as yet, but indiscrete, confused, Sown thro' the void--the faintest gleam of light Which sets itself to Be. And yet is He There too, and rules, none seeing. But sometimes To this our heaven, which is so like to earth But nearer to Him, for awhile He shows Some gleam of His own brightness, and methinks It cometh soon; but thou, if thou shouldst gaze, Thy Life will rush to His--the tiny spark Absorbed in that full blaze--and what there is Of mortal fall from thee." But I: "Oh, soul, What holdeth Life more precious than to know The Giver and to die?" Then she: "Behold! Look upward and adore." And with the word, Unhasting, undelaying, gradual, sure, The floating cloud which clothed the hidden peak Rose slow in awful silence, laying bare Spire after rocky spire, snow after snow, Whiter and yet more dreadful, till at last It left the summit clear. Then with a bound, In the twinkling of an eye, in the flash of a thought, I knew an Awful Effluence of Light, Formless, Ineffable, Perfect, burst on me And flood my being round, and take my life Into itself. I saw my guide bent down Prostrate, her wings before her face; and then No more.

But when I woke from my long trance Behold, it was no longer Tartarus, Nor Hades, nor Olympus, but the bare And unideal aspect of the fields Which Spring not yet had kissed--the strange old Earth So far more fabulous now than in the days When Man was young, nor yet the mystery Of Time and Fate transformed it. From the hills, The long night fled at last, the unclouded sun, The dear, fair sun, leapt upward swift, and smote My sight with rays of gold, and pierced my brain With too much light ere my entrancèd eyes Could hide themselves. And I was on the Earth Dreaming the dream of Life again, as late I dreamed the dream of Death. Another day Dawned on the race of men; another world; New heavens, and new earth.

And as I went Across the lightening fields, upon a bank I saw a single snowdrop glance, and bring Promise of Spring; and keeping my old thought In the old fair Hellenic vesture dressed, I felt myself a ghost, and seemed to be Now fair Adonis hasting to the arms Of his lost love--now sad Persephone Restored to mother earth--or that high shade Orpheus, who gave up heaven to save his love, And is rewarded--or young Marsyas, Who spent his youth and life for song, and yet Was happy though in torture--or the fair And dreaming youth I saw, who still awaits, Hopeful, the unveiling heaven, when he shall see His fair ideal love. The birds sang blithe; There came a tinkling from the waking fold; And on the hillside from the cot a girl Tripped singing with her pitcher. All the sounds And thoughts which still are beautiful--Youth, Song, Dawn, Spring, Renewal--and my soul was glad Of all the freshness, and I felt again The youth and spring-tide of the world, and thought, Which feigned those fair and gracious fantasies.

For every dawn that breaks brings a new world, And every budding bosom a new life; These fair tales, which we know so beautiful, Show only finer than our lives to-day Because their voice was clearer, and they found A sacred bard to sing them. We are pent, Who sing to-day, by all the garnered wealth Of ages of past song. We have no more The world to choose from, who, where'er we turn, Tread through old thoughts and fair. Yet must we sing-- We have no choice; and if more hard the toil In noon, when all is clear, than in the fresh White mists of early morn, yet do we find Achievement its own guerdon, and at last The rounder song of manhood grows more sweet Than the high note of youth. For Age, long Age! Nought else divides us from the fresh young days Which men call ancient; seeing that we in turn Shall one day be Time's ancients, and inspire The wiser, higher race, which yet shall sing Because to sing is human, and high thought Grows rhythmic ere its close. Nought else there is But that weird beat of Time, which doth disjoin To-day from Hellas. How should any hold Those precious scriptures only old-world tales Of strange impossible torments and false gods; Of men and monsters in some brainless dream, Coherent, yet unmeaning, linked together By some false skein of song? Nay! evermore, All things and thoughts, both new and old, are writ Upon the unchanging human heart and soul. Has Passion still no prisoners? Pine there now No lives which fierce Love, sinking into Lust, Has drowned at last in tears and blood--plunged down To the lowest depths of Hell? Have not strong Will And high Ambition rotted into Greed And Wrong, for any, as of old, and whelmed The struggling soul in ruin? Hell lies near Around us as does Heaven, and in the World, Which is our Hades, still the chequered souls Compact of good and ill--not all accurst Nor altogether blest--a few brief years Travel the little journey of their lives, They know not to what end. The weary woman Sunk deep in ease and sated with her life, Much loved and yet unloving, pines to-day As Helen; still the poet strives and sings. And hears Apollo's music, and grows dumb, And suffers, yet is happy; still the young Fond dreamer seeks his high ideal love, And finds her name is Death; still doth the fair And innocent life, bound naked to the rock, Redeem the race; still the gay tempter goes And leaves his victim, stone; still doth pain bind Men's souls in closer links of lovingness, Than Death itself can sever; still the sight Of too great beauty blinds us, and we lose The sense of earthly splendours, gaining Heaven.

And still the skies are opened as of old To the entrancèd gaze, ay, nearer far And brighter than of yore; and Might is there, And Infinite Purity is there, and high Eternal Wisdom, and the calm clear face Of Duty, and a higher, stronger Love And Light in one, and a new, reverend Name, Greater than any and combining all; And over all, veiled with a veil of cloud, God set far off, too bright for mortal eyes.

And always, always, with each soul that comes And goes, comes that fair form which was my guide, Hovering, with golden wings and eyes divine, Above the bed of birth, the bed of death, Still breathing heavenly airs of deathless love.

For while a youth is lost in soaring thought, And while a maid grows sweet and beautiful, And while a spring-tide coming lights the earth, And while a child, and while a flower is born, And while one wrong cries for redress and finds A soul to answer, still the world is young!

THE END.

Footnotes: [1] Euripides, "Hippolytus," lines 70-78. [2] Virgil, "Æneid," vi. 740. [3] See the Orphic Hymns.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.

[Transcriber's Notes: This text is hemistichia, in that the end of one stanza is vertically aligned with the start of the next stanza. Inconsistent Hyphenation and text retained.]