Part 12

So mastered was that company By the crowned vision utterly, Swayed to a maniac mockery.

One dulled his eyeballs, as they ached With Homer's forehead, though he lacked An inch of any; and one racked

His lower lip with restless tooth, As Pindar's rushing words forsooth Were pent behind it; one his smooth

Pink cheeks did rumple passionate Like Æschylus, and tried to prate On trolling tongue of fate and fate;

One set her eyes like Sappho's--or Any light woman's; one forbore Like Dante, or any man as poor

In mirth, to let a smile undo His hard-shut lips; and one that drew Sour humours from his mother, blew

His sunken cheeks out to the size Of most unnatural jollities, Because Anacreon looked jest-wise;

So with the rest: it was a sight A great world-laughter would requite, Or great world-wrath, with equal right

Out came a speaker from that crowd To speak for all, in sleek and proud Exordial periods, while he bowed

His knee before the angel--"Thus, O angel who hast called for us, We bring thee service emulous,

"Fit service from sufficient soul, Hand-service to receive world's dole, Lip-service in world's ear to roll

"Adjusted concords soft enow To hear the wine-cups passing, through, And not too grave to spoil the show:

"Thou, certes, when thou askest more, O sapient angel, leanest o'er The window-sill of metaphor.

"To give our hearts up? fie! that rage Barbaric antedates the age; It is not done on any stage.

"Because your scald or gleeman went With seven or nine-stringed instrument Upon his back,--must ours be bent?

"We are not pilgrims, by your leave; No, nor yet martyrs; if we grieve, It is to rhyme to--summer eve:

"And if we labour, it shall be As suiteth best with our degree, In after-dinner reverie."

More yet that speaker would have said, Poising between his smiles fair-fed Each separate phrase till finishèd;

But all the foreheads of those born And dead true poets flashed with scorn Betwixt the bay leaves round them worn,

Ay, jetted such brave fire that they, The new-come, shrank and paled away Like leaden ashes when the day

Strikes on the hearth. A spirit-blast, A presence known by power, at last Took them up mutely: they had passed.

And he our pilgrim-poet saw Only their places, in deep awe, What time the angel's smile did draw

His gazing upward. Smiling on, The angel in the angel shone, Revealing glory in benison;

Till, ripened in the light which shut The poet in, his spirit mute Dropped sudden as a perfect fruit;

He fell before the angel's feet, Saying, "If what is true is sweet, In something I may compass it:

"For, where my worthiness is poor, My will stands richly at the door To pay shortcomings evermore.

"Accept me therefore: not for price And not for pride my sacrifice Is tendered, for my soul is nice

"And will beat down those dusty seeds Of bearded corn if she succeeds In soaring while the covey feeds.

"I soar, I am drawn up like the lark To its white cloud--so high my mark, Albeit my wing is small and dark.

"I ask no wages, seek no fame: Sew me, for shroud round face and name, God's banner of the oriflamme.

"I only would have leave to loose (In tears and blood if so He choose) Mine inward music out to use:

"I only would be spent--in pain And loss, perchance, but not in vain-- Upon the sweetness of that strain;

"Only project beyond the bound Of mine own life, so lost and found, My voice, and live on in its sound;

"Only embrace and be embraced By fiery ends, whereby to waste, And light God's future with my past."

The angel's smile grew more divine, The mortal speaking; ay, its shine Swelled fuller, like a choir-note fine,

Till the broad glory round his brow Did vibrate with the light below; But what he said I do not know.

Nor know I if the man who prayed, Rose up accepted, unforbade, From the church-floor where he was laid,--

Nor if a listening life did run Through the king-poets, one by one Rejoicing in a worthy son:

My soul, which might have seen, grew blind By what it looked on: I can find No certain count of things behind.

I saw alone, dim, white and grand As in a dream, the angel's hand Stretched forth in gesture of command

Straight through the haze. And so, as erst, A strain more noble than the first Mused in the organ, and outburst:

With giant march from floor to roof Rose the full notes, now parted off In pauses massively aloof

Like measured thunders, now rejoined In concords of mysterious kind Which fused together sense and mind,

Now flashing sharp on sharp along Exultant in a mounting throng, Now dying off to a low song

Fed upon minors, wavelike sounds Re-eddying into silver rounds, Enlarging liberty with bounds:

And every rhythm that seemed to close Survived in confluent underflows Symphonious with the next that rose.

Thus the whole strain being multiplied And greatened, with its glorified Wings shot abroad from side to side,

Waved backward (as a wind might wave A Brocken mist and with as brave Wild roaring) arch and architrave,

Aisle, transept, column, marble wall,-- Then swelling outward, prodigal Of aspiration beyond thrall,

Soared, and drew up with it the whole Of this said vision, as a soul Is raised by a thought. And as a scroll

Of bright devices is unrolled Still upward with a gradual gold, So rose the vision manifold,

Angel and organ, and the round Of spirits, solemnized and crowned; While the freed clouds of incense wound

Ascending, following in their track, And glimmering faintly like the rack O' the moon in her own light cast back.

And as that solemn dream withdrew, The lady's kiss did fall anew Cold on the poet's brow as dew.

And that same kiss which bound him first Beyond the senses, now reversed Its own law and most subtly pierced

His spirit with the sense of things Sensual and present. Vanishings Of glory with Æolian wings

Struck him and passed: the lady's face Did melt back in the chrysopras Of the orient morning sky that was

Yet clear of lark and there and so She melted as a star might do, Still smiling as she melted slow:

Smiling so slow, he seemed to see Her smile the last thing, gloriously Beyond her, far as memory.

Then he looked round: he was alone. He lay before the breaking sun, As Jacob at the Bethel stone.

And thought's entangled skein being wound, He knew the moorland of his swound, And the pale pools that smeared the ground;

The far wood-pines like offing ships; The fourth pool's yew anear him drips, _World's cruelty_ attaints his lips,

And still he tastes it, bitter still; Through all that glorious possible He had the sight of present ill.

Yet rising calmly up and slowly With such a cheer as scorneth folly, A mild delightsome melancholy,

He journeyed homeward through the wood And prayed along the solitude Betwixt the pines, "O God, my God!"

The golden morning's open flowings Did sway the trees to murmurous bowings, In metric chant of blessed poems.

And passing homeward through the wood, He prayed along the solitude, "THOU, Poet-God, art great and good!

"And though we must have, and have had Right reason to be earthly sad, THOU, Poet-God, art great and glad!"

CONCLUSION.

Life treads on life, and heart on heart; We press too close in church and mart To keep a dream or grave apart:

And I was 'ware of walking down That same green forest where had gone The poet-pilgrim. One by one

I traced his footsteps. From the east A red and tender radiance pressed Through the near trees, until I guessed

The sun behind shone full and round; While up the leafiness profound A wind scarce old enough for sound

Stood ready to blow on me when I turned that way, and now and then The birds sang and brake off again

To shake their pretty feathers dry Of the dew sliding droppingly From the leaf-edges and apply

Back to their song: 'twixt dew and bird So sweet a silence ministered, God seemed to use it for a word,

Yet morning souls did leap and run In all things, as the least had won A joyous insight of the sun,

And no one looking round the wood Could help confessing as he stood, _This Poet-God is glad and good._

But hark! a distant sound that grows, A heaving, sinking of the boughs, A rustling murmur, not of those,

A breezy noise which is not breeze! And white-clad children by degrees Steal out in troops among the trees,

Fair little children morning-bright, With faces grave yet soft to sight, Expressive of restrained delight.

Some plucked the palm-boughs within reach, And others leapt up high to catch The upper boughs and shake from each

A rain of dew till, wetted so, The child who held the branch let go And it swang backward with a flow

Of faster drippings. Then I knew The children laughed; but the laugh flew From its own chirrup as might do

A frightened song-bird; and a child Who seemed the chief said very mild, "Hush! keep this morning undefiled."

His eyes rebuked them from calm spheres, His soul upon his brow appears In waiting for more holy years.

I called the child to me, and said, "What are your palms for?" "To be spread," He answered, "on a poet dead.

"The poet died last month, and now The world which had been somewhat slow In honouring his living brow,

"Commands the palms; they must be strown On his new marble very soon, In a procession of the town."

I sighed and said, "Did he foresee Any such honour?" "Verily I cannot tell you," answered he.

"But this I know, I fain would lay My own head down, another day, As _he_ did,--with the fame away.

"A lily, a friend's hand had plucked, Lay by his death-bed, which he looked As deep down as a bee had sucked,

"Then, turning to the lattice, gazed O'er hill and river and upraised His eyes illumined and amazed

"With the world's beauty, up to God, Re-offering on their iris broad The images of things bestowed

"By the chief Poet. 'God!' he cried, 'Be praised for anguish which has tried, For beauty which has satisfied:

"'For this world's presence half within And half without me--thought and scene-- This sense of Being and Having Been.

"'I thank Thee that my soul hath room For Thy grand world: both guests may come-- Beauty, to soul--Body, to tomb.

"'I am content to be so weak: Put strength into the words I speak, And I am strong in what I seek.

"'I am content to be so bare Before the archers, everywhere My wounds being stroked by heavenly air.

"'I laid my soul before Thy feet That images of fair and sweet Should walk to other men on it.

"'I am content to feel the step Of each pure image: let those keep To mandragore who care to sleep.

"'I am content to touch the brink Of the other goblet and I think My bitter drink a wholesome drink.

"'Because my portion was assigned Wholesome and bitter, Thou art kind, And I am blessed to my mind.

"'Gifted for giving, I receive The maythorn and its scent outgive: I grieve not that I once did grieve.

"'In my large joy of sight and touch Beyond what others count for such, I am content to suffer much.

"'_I know_--is all the mourner saith, Knowledge by suffering entereth, And Life is perfected by Death.'"

The child spake nobly: strange to hear, His infantine soft accents clear Charged with high meanings, did appear;

And fair to see, his form and face Winged out with whiteness and pure grace From the green darkness of the place.

Behind his head a palm-tree grew; An orient beam which pierced it through Transversely on his forehead drew

The figure of a palm-branch brown Traced on its brightness up and down In fine fair lines,--a shadow-crown:

Guido might paint his angels so-- A little angel, taught to go With holy words to saints below--

Such innocence of action yet Significance of object met In his whole bearing strong and sweet.

And all the children, the whole band, Did round in rosy reverence stand, Each with a palm-bough in his hand.

"And so he died," I whispered. "Nay, Not _so_," the childish voice did say, "That poet turned him first to pray

"In silence, and God heard the rest 'Twixt the sun's footsteps down the west. Then he called one who loved him best,

"Yea, he called softly through the room (His voice was weak yet tender)--'Come,' He said, 'come nearer! Let the bloom

"'Of Life grow over, undenied, This bridge of Death, which is not wide-- I shall be soon at the other side.

"'Come, kiss me!' So the one in truth Who loved him best,--in love, not ruth, Bowed down and kissed him mouth to mouth:

"And in that kiss of love was won Life's manumission. All was done: The mouth that kissed last, kissed _alone_.

"But in the former, confluent kiss, The same was sealed, I think, by His, To words of truth and uprightness."

The child's voice trembled, his lips shook Like a rose leaning o'er a brook, Which vibrates though it is not struck.

"And who," I asked, a little moved Yet curious-eyed, "was this that loved And kissed him last, as it behoved?"

"_I_," softly said the child; and then "_I_," said he louder, once again: "His son, my rank is among men:

"And now that men exalt his name I come to gather palms with them, That holy love may hallow fame.

"He did not die alone, nor should His memory live so, 'mid these rude World-praisers--a worse solitude.

"Me, a voice calleth to that tomb Where these are strewing branch and bloom Saying, 'Come nearer:' and I come.

"Glory to God!" resumèd he, And his eyes smiled for victory O'er their own tears which I could see

Fallen on the palm, down cheek and chin-- "That poet now has entered in The place of rest which is not sin.

"And while he rests, his songs in troops Walk up and down our earthly slopes, Companioned by diviner hopes."

"But _thou_," I murmured to engage The child's speech farther--"hast an age Too tender for this orphanage."

"Glory to God--to God!" he saith: "KNOWLEDGE BY SUFFERING ENTERETH, AND LIFE IS PERFECTED BY DEATH."

THE POET'S VOW

O be wiser thou, Instructed that true knowledge leads to love.

WORDSWORTH.

THE POET'S VOW.

PART THE FIRST.

SHOWING WHEREFORE THE VOW WAS MADE.

I.

Eve is a twofold mystery; The stillness Earth doth keep, The motion wherewith human hearts Do each to either leap As if all souls between the poles Felt "Parting comes in sleep."

II.

The rowers lift their oars to view Each other in the sea; The landsmen watch the rocking boats In a pleasant company; While up the hill go gladlier still Dear friends by two and three.

III.

The peasant's wife hath looked without Her cottage door and smiled, For there the peasant drops his spade To clasp his youngest child Which hath no speech, but its hand can reach And stroke his forehead mild.

IV.

A poet sate that eventide Within his hall alone, As silent as its ancient lords In the coffined place of stone, When the bat hath shrunk from the praying monk, And the praying monk is gone.

V.

Nor wore the dead a stiller face Beneath the cerement's roll: His lips refusing out in words Their mystic thoughts to dole, His steadfast eye burnt inwardly, As burning out his soul.

VI.

You would not think that brow could e'er Ungentle moods express, Yet seemed it, in this troubled world, Too calm for gentleness, When the very star that shines from far Shines trembling ne'ertheless.

VII.

It lacked, all need, the softening light Which other brows supply: We should conjoin the scathèd trunks Of our humanity, That each leafless spray entwining may Look softer 'gainst the sky.

VIII.

None gazed within the poet's face, The poet gazed in none; He threw a lonely shadow straight Before the moon and sun, Affronting nature's heaven-dwelling creatures With wrong to nature done:

IX.

Because this poet daringly, --The nature at his heart, And that quick tune along his veins He could not change by art,-- Had vowed his blood of brotherhood To a stagnant place apart.

X.

He did not vow in fear, or wrath, Or grief's fantastic whim, But, weights and shows of sensual things Too closely crossing him, On his soul's eyelid the pressure slid And made its vision dim.

XI.

And darkening in the dark he strove 'Twixt earth and sea and sky To lose in shadow, wave and cloud, His brother's haunting cry: The winds were welcome as they swept, God's five-day work he would accept, But let the rest go by.

XII.

He cried, "O touching, patient Earth That weepest in thy glee, Whom God created very good, And very mournful, we! Thy voice of moan doth reach His throne, As Abel's rose from thee.

XIII.

"Poor crystal sky with stars astray! Mad winds that howling go From east to west! perplexèd seas That stagger from their blow! O motion wild! O wave defiled! Our curse hath made you so.

XIV.

'_We!_ and _our_ curse! do _I_ partake The desiccating sin? Have _I_ the apple at my lips? The money-lust within? Do _I_ human stand with the wounding hand, To the blasting heart akin?

XV.

"Thou solemn pathos of all things For solemn joy designed! Behold, submissive to your cause, A holy wrath I find And, for your sake, the bondage break That knits me to my kind.

XVI.

"Hear me forswear man's sympathies, His pleasant yea and no, His riot on the piteous earth Whereon his thistles grow, His changing love--with stars above, His pride--with graves below.

XVII.

"Hear me forswear his roof by night, His bread and salt by day, His talkings at the wood-fire hearth, His greetings by the way, His answering looks, his systemed books, All man, for aye and aye.

XVIII.

"That so my purged, once human heart, From all the human rent, May gather strength to pledge and drink Your wine of wonderment, While you pardon me all blessingly The woe mine Adam sent.

XIX.

"And I shall feel your unseen looks Innumerous, constant, deep And soft as haunted Adam once, Though sadder, round me creep,-- As slumbering men have mystic ken Of watchers on their sleep.

XX.

"And ever, when I lift my brow At evening to the sun, No voice of woman or of child Recording 'Day is done.' Your silences shall a love express, More deep than such an one."

PART THE SECOND.

SHOWING TO WHOM THE VOW WAS DECLARED.

I.

The poet's vow was inly sworn, The poet's vow was told. He shared among his crowding friends The silver and the gold, They clasping bland his gift,--his hand In a somewhat slacker hold.

II.

They wended forth, the crowding friends, With farewells smooth and kind. They wended forth, the solaced friends, And left but twain behind: One loved him true as brothers do, And one was Rosalind.

III.

He said, "My friends have wended forth With farewells smooth and kind; Mine oldest friend, my plighted bride, Ye need not stay behind: Friend, wed my fair bride for my sake, And let my lands ancestral make A dower for Rosalind.

IV.

"And when beside your wassail board Ye bless your social lot, I charge you that the giver be In all his gifts forgot, Or alone of all his words recall The last,--Lament me not."

V.

She looked upon him silently With her large, doubting eyes, Like a child that never knew but love Whom words of wrath surprise, Till the rose did break from either cheek And the sudden tears did rise.

VI.

She looked upon him mournfully, While her large eyes were grown Yet larger with the steady tears, Till, all his purpose known, She turnèd slow, as she would go-- The tears were shaken down.

VII.

She turnèd slow, as she would go, Then quickly turned again, And gazing in his face to seek Some little touch of pain, "I thought," she said,--but shook her head,-- She tried that speech in vain.

VIII.

"I thought--but I am half a child And very sage art thou-- The teachings of the heaven and earth Should keep us soft and low: They have drawn _my_ tears in early years, Or ere I wept--as now.

IX.

"But now that in thy face I read Their cruel homily, Before their beauty I would fain Untouched, unsoftened be,-- If I indeed could look on even The senseless, loveless earth and heaven As thou canst look on me!

X.

"And couldest thou as coldly view Thy childhood's far abode, Where little feet kept time with thine Along the dewy sod, And thy mother's look from holy book Rose like a thought of God?

XI.

"O brother,--called so, ere her last Betrothing words were said! O fellow-watcher in her room, With hushèd voice and tread! Rememberest thou how, hand in hand O friend, O lover, we did stand, And knew that she was dead?

XII.

"I will not live Sir Roland's bride, That dower I will not hold; I tread below my feet that go, These parchments bought and sold: The tears I weep are mine to keep, And worthier than thy gold."

XIII.

The poet and Sir Roland stood Alone, each turned to each, Till Roland brake the silence left By that soft-throbbing speech-- "Poor heart!" he cried, "it vainly tried The distant heart to reach.

XIV.

"And thou, O distant, sinful heart That climbest up so high To wrap and blind thee with the snows That cause to dream and die, What blessing can, from lips of man, Approach thee with his sigh?

XV.

"Ay, what from earth--create for man And moaning in his moan? Ay, what from stars--revealed to man And man-named one by one? Ay, more! what blessing can be given Where the Spirits seven do show in heaven A MAN upon the throne?

XVI.

"A man on earth HE wandered once, All meek and undefiled, And those who loved Him said 'He wept'-- None ever said He smiled; Yet there might have been a smile unseen, When He bowed his holy face, I ween, To bless that happy child.

XVII.

"And now HE pleadeth up in heaven For our humanities, Till the ruddy light on seraphs' wings In pale emotion dies. They can better bear their Godhead's glare Than the pathos of his eyes.

XVIII.

"I will go pray our God to-day To teach thee how to scan His work divine, for human use Since earth on axle ran,-- To teach thee to discern as plain His grief divine, the blood-drop's stain He left there, MAN for man.

XIX.

"So, for the blood's sake shed by Him Whom angels God declare, Tears like it, moist and warm with love, Thy reverent eyes shall wear To see i' the face of Adam's race The nature God doth share."

XX.

"I heard," the poet said, "thy voice As dimly as thy breath: The sound was like the noise of life To one anear his death,-- Or of waves that fail to stir the pale Sere leaf they roll beneath.

XXI.

"And still between the sound and me White creatures like a mist Did interfloat confusedly, Mysterious shapes unwist: Across my heart and across my brow I felt them droop like wreaths of snow, To still the pulse they kist.

XXII.

"The castle and its lands are thine-- The poor's--it shall be done. Go, _man_, to love! I go to live In Courland hall, alone: The bats along the ceilings cling, The lizards in the floors do run, And storms and years have worn and reft The stain by human builders left In working at the stone."

PART THE THIRD.

SHOWING HOW THE VOW WAS KEPT.

I.