Robert Norwood (1923)/Anthology
ANTHOLOGY
HIS LADY OF THE SONNETS
IMy soul awoke from slumber—the long ease Of years that passed away in dull content, Not caring what the world’s deep voices meant—Sunk in my dreams, I heard their harmoniesLike wind-blown clamour of far-calling seas That told of Ithaca to sailors spent With trouble, and forgetful at the scentAnd taste of fruit plucked from the lotus trees;
For as I slept, your footsteps on the grass, Your voice, wrought once again the miracleOf Eden; and I saw appear and pass Eve in her beauty, binding still the spellThat Adam felt, when from his opened sideStepped Woman forth in loveliness and pride.
III meet you in the mystery of the night, A dear Dream-Goddess on a crescent moon; An opalescent splendour, like a noonOf lilies; and I wonder that the heightShould darken for the depth to give me light— Light of your face, so lovely that I swoon With gazing, and then wake to find how soonJoy of the world fades when you fade from sight.
Beholding you, I am Endymion, Lost and immortal in Latmian dreams;With Dian bending down to look upon Her shepherd, whose æonian slumber seemsA moment, twinkling like a starry gemAmong the jewels of her diadem.
IIIIf I could tell why, when you look at me. Dreams that have visited half-wakeful nights Re-form and shape themselves, and Pisgah-sightsFill one far valley to a purple sea;And white-domed cities rise with porphyry, Jacinth and sapphire gates, beneath the heights, Rose-flamed within the dawn where Phœbus smitesEarth with his heel—claiming its lord to be;
Then would you know what my heart seeks to say And falters ere sufficient words be found: How all the voiceless night and vocal day Love looks on you and trembles into sound;Love longs and pleads for his one moment’s bliss—You and he mingled in a silent kiss.
IV My love is like a spring among the hills Whose brimming waters may not be confined, But pour one torrent through the ways that windDown to a garden; there the rose distillsIts nectar; there a tall, white lily fills Night with anointing of two lovers, blind, Dumb, deaf, of body, spirit, and of mindFrom breathless blending of far-sundered wills.
Long ere my love had reached you, hard I strove To send its torrent through the barren fields;I wanted you, the lilied treasure-trove Of innocence, whose dear possession yieldsImmortal gladness to my heart that knowsHow you surpass the lily and the rose.
VLike one great opal on the breast of Night, Soft and translucent hangs the orb of June! I hear wild pipings of a joyous tunePlayed on a golden reed for the delight Of you, my hidden, lovely Eremite— You by the fountain from the marble hewn— You silent as in dream, with flowers strewnAbout your feet—you goddess, robed in white!
Mute and amazed, I at the broken wall Lean fearful, lest the sudden, dreadful dawnFor me Diana’s awful doom let fall; And I be cursed with curious Actæon,Save that you find in me this strong defence—My adoration of your innocence.
VI When from the rose-mist of creation grew God’s patient waiting in your wide-set eyes, The morning Stars, and all the host that fliesOn wings of love, paused at the wondrous blueWith which the Master, mindful of the hue, Stained first the crystal dome of summer skies; And afterward the violet that viesWith amethyst, before He fashioned you.
And I have trembled with those ancient stars; My heart has known the flame-winged seraph’s song;For no indifferent, dreamy eyelid bars Me from the blue, nor veils with lashes longYour love, that to my tender gazing growsBold to confess it: I am glad he knows!
VIIThere came three wise men riding from the east; One was a king and brought a gift of gold; And one bore frankincense that fate foretold;While myrrh was offered by a mitred priest.Nor ever hath Love’s brave adventure ceased Since that fair night ashine with stars and cold, When even angels paused their wings to fold—Love to adore made one with man and beast.
Accept three gifts I to thee gladly bring; Each hath its own divine significance:Gold is the Body thou hast crowned a king; My Spirit is the prophet’s frankincense;Myrrh is the Mind which strives to tell thee allLove’s mystic and melodious ritual!
XXVIII Companion of the highroad, hail! all hail! Day on his shoulder flame of sunset bears. As he goes marching where the autumn flaresA banner to the sky; in russet mailThe trees are trooping hither to assail Twilight with spears; a rank of coward cares Creep up, as though to take us unawares,And find their stratagems of none avail.
Accept the challenge of the royal hills, And dare adventure as we always dared!Life with red wine his golden chalice fills, And bids us drink to all who forward fared—Those lost, white armies of the host of dream;Those dauntless, singing pilgrims of the Gleam!
XXIX Here have we made fair songs on psalteries Played tenderly by lovers in all lands. Sometimes the strings are smitten by harsh handsOf anger, doubt, and frowning jealousies;And sometimes are drawn forth sad threnodies For dear Love dead. Let him who understands Man’s way with Woman loose the mystic bandsThat bind my parabled heart-secrecies.
In dreams again o’er leagues of purple sea My bark is borne to some far, fabled strand—Dear, how the world is young! I seem to be One of famed Helen’s lovers; her commandIs in your eyes as you gaze forth from Troy— Immortal in your beauty and your joy.
XXX My Lady of the Sonnets, one word more, The last; and, after, let the silence fall. Our year is ended, and things great and smallGlow with its glory; could we live it o’er.What would we scatter from its precious store Of pearl, chalcedony, and topaz—all The many-jewelled moments that we callLove’s treasure—we who had not loved before!
Into that treasure plunge we both our hands, The while we laugh, and love, and live again.What rainbow-splendours and what golden sands Fall from our fingers! . . . Now let come the painAnd steal the shadow, moan the wintry sea;Locked is the casket: in your hands the key!
FELLOW CRAFTSMEN
As in some workshop where the hammers ring And bare-armed artisans toil, blow on blow, To make each crude, imperfect member growTo the completed plan, rise thou, and fling Aside all doubt and langour; strive to bring The deed up to its best; in gladness go Undaunted; have full confidence; and knowThou and thy God can perfect everything!
Throughout the busy day He works with us And knows that we are tired; He hears and feelsThe grind of every cog, the plaint, the fuss. The purr of pinions in the thousand wheelsThat whir for ever down the endless walls,Where, as we toil. His light perpetual falls.
REINCARNATION
I saw three souls before a jasper throne That stood, star-canopied, beyond the world Where angels knelt before a Presence—furledWhite wings and waited. In vast undertoneA Voice said: “Choose!” And instantly were shown Three chalices: one like a lily curled About a stem of gold; one was empearledIn silver; one was carved from common stone.
I saw three souls sink swiftly back to earth; I heard three children wailing in the night;I met three men of diverse rank and birth: A king; a priest; a slave whose wretched plightMoved me to pity, till mine ancient dreamRecalled the proverb: “Things are not what they seem!”
A FALLEN ANGEL
Out of the light,Into the night, God, I am falling!Fashioned of flame.Spent with my shame, God, I am calling!
All through the daySin has had sway— Lost is the token;Evening bringsHurt of my wings, Blackened and broken.
Child of a star,Thine avatar, Drunk from the revel;Who am I, God,—Spirit or clod, Angel or devil?
Yet Thou hast madeMe Thy sword-blade— Sheathed, that its brightnessFlash up to win,When the last sin Bums into whiteness.
Hand that can smite,Hold the hilt tight, Draw, and strike faster!Strike with me. Lord!My soul Thy sword, And Thou its Master.
Strike! till the dayGrow from the gray Gloom of the peril;And in the skiesDream-domes arise— Jacinth and beryl!
A LITANY
For what we to ourselves have done, We who are miracles divine,Flares from a universal sun, Or lees from an Olympian wine; For the abuse of laughter,And tears that follow after;For love betrayed, and hope delayed: Cry we mercy, God!
For what we to ourselves have said: “Thou hast much goods; peace, O my Soul,Nor fret if beggars cry for bread. And show their rags in hope of dole.God giveth thee much pleasure.Want is the poor man’s measure!”For all of these dark heresies: Cry we mercy, God!
For what we on ourselves have wrought— Wild havoc with the weird, grotesque,Abortive images of thought, Making of beauty the burlesque;For much pretence in praying;And little heart at playing;For smothered smiles and countless guiles: Cry we mercy, God!
For casting dice where Jesus bleeds Upon His cross, naked, alone;Unheedful in the noise of creeds Of Him and His last dying moan; For Rahab robed in scarlet,Cursed with the title, “Harlot,”By the decrees of Pharisees: Cry we mercy, God!
For the delight of out-of-doors Missed in our minsters made of stone,Unmindful that pure incense pours To Thee from wild rose-petals blownDown forest-aisles; that altar fires Burn in the sunset on the hills,And from the pine-wood’s ancient spires The varied chime of evening fillsAll hearts with rapture; for the light Lost on white lilies, and the blueOf heaven wasted, the dear night With her gold stars and silver dewNeglected. Oh, for what we fail To find from life so rich and fair—The rain, the snow, the sleet, the hail, Summer, and blossom-breathing air;For every useless sorrow,And fears for the to-morrow,Not knowing Thee, great Deity: Cry we mercy, God!
THE WITCH OF ENDOR
Act I, page 39.
Saul—(to Ahimelech.) Priest, I would set my love Against Jehovah’s Word and dare the gulf Of Tophet for the lips which He has forced To prophesy against her heart!Ahimelech—(recoils in horror from Saul and covers his eyes with his hands.) Saul! Saul!Saul—(to Loruhamah.) Come, Loruhamah! Let us leave this place, And go beyond the hills to Babylon— There I will build for you fair palaces And pour the balms of Calah on your head; Deep aisles of odours shall resound with song And laugh of little children—Yours, O Heart! For you the shadow of my hand shall fall Upon Euphrates, seize Chaldea’s crown, Make Nineveh a name within my ring! Come with me!Loruhamah—(weeping.) Nay!Saul— Come, Loruhamah! Come!Loruhamah—(lifts up her head and gazes steadily into the eyes of Saul. After a moment’s pause, she withdraws from him and speaks.) Oh, I am fearful of a threatened doom— Dark treachery that weaves a silver web To drag you down through me to such a fate. My name would grow a by-word and a hissing, Should love prevail on me! . . . Rise up, my Saul! Ascend the throne and rule your people well; Lose your great pain in plans of magnitude So vast, a god’s white, awful arm might shake, Fulfilling them! This must you do for me: Then pride shall wrestle with my woman’s will And conquer when I shall most want to weep!Ahimelech—(moves over to Loruhamah with uplifted hands.) On you be shadowing of seraphim!
Act II, page 58.
Doeg—(draws a scroll from his girdle.) The King’s decree awaits his signature Against soothsayers; now are you condemned And driven from this land! . . . The cords are tight, My Priestess!Loruhamah—(startled and staring at the scroll.) You—you—! Doeg— Well?Loruhamah— You say that Saul—!Doeg— That Saul has issued a decree against Soothsayers! You will throw your shadow far, Or ever you prevent me!Loruhamah— Saul has not Commanded this!Doeg—(offering her the decree.) Then read the writing.Loruhamah—(takes the scroll and reads.) Saul! (The scroll falls from her hand; Doeg picks it up and watches her with a smile of triumph.)Doeg—Poor Loruhamah!Loruhamah— I—I—!Doeg— Just one word, And I will make the writing void.Loruhamah (breathlessly.) You mean—?Doeg—That which I say.Loruhamah—(bitterly.) O Ashtoreth!Doeg— One word! Loruhamah— O Serpent! I am in your coils.Doeg—Come, show your wisdom.Loruhamah— In destroying Saul?Doeg—Not in destroying him.Loruhamah— You said that I Must lure his soul to Tophet!Doeg— Soul—not body! Destroy his trust in what he deems divine, Until Jehovah is for him a name, And all that he held holy is a name, His crown, his throne, his kingdom but a name— An empty sound—a cry across the waste And wildness of the world! As for the rest— I care not; have your way with what is left!Loruhamah—(with a cry of anguish.) His body I may have, but not his soul— His soul that held me that first night we met In Askelon—the soul of Saul that holds Me steadfast to the dream that we may meet Somewhere beyond the boundaries of earth, When love has conquered the indifference Of all the gods! Destroy his soul and keep His body—! Pour the wine out—keep the jar! Shatter the harp and keep the soundless strings! Better this flesh were shredded to the bone; These eyes torn out, to which great minstrels sang, And all my beauty vanished into dust; Than my fair womanhood work witchery And bane of madness on the man I love! Oh, little do you know of women, who Set sex against the highest; think we care For trinkets—that our hearts are satisfied With dulcet strummings of a psaltery In dim seraglios! . . . Set my sex against The soul of Saul and wreck him with a kiss? Now by the womanhood that you despise, I will not do this thing—not for the gods Who shame their high estate with use of you! And though you lead Saul to the gates of hell, And hurl him to the lowest pit thereof, My love will follow after him; my tears Quench the last fire that burns to torture him; My cry assail the doors of heaven until The gods rise up and bid us enter in!
- (As Loruhamah finishes these words, the doors of the palace open and Saul appears. She covers her face with her mantle and moves swiftly out at left, disappearing among the trees. Saul stands between the pillars gazing after her. Doeg turns to the King and makes obeisance. Saul slowly descends to Doeg.)
Saul—Who is that woman?Doeg— A witless creature, crazed By loss of him she loved.Saul— Of him she loved! Deal tenderly with her.Doeg— Yea, tenderly! The writing waits your signature, my Lord.
Act IV. page 95.
Saul to David—What is there in your voice— What craft of fingers on the sounding strings, That I am lifted instantly to heights Out of vast, dim abysses when you play?David—I know not save that in my heart is love For all things underneath the sky—a sense Of beauty that I see yet do not see— Of music that I hear and do not hear— A consciousness of forces in myself. Transcending what I see and hear and know! Sometimes the many-coloured veils of earth Are lifted by invisible, swift hands And glory of the infinite is near; Then comes awareness of a comradeship With God and all His angels, and I rise Through unknown spaces of the heaven’s blue, Lost in the adoration of a love— Self-limited and by the creature bound That it might share the limitless and pure Possession of itself!Saul— Would that I knew Your secret, lad; for I am lonely—held A prisoner of sorrow—fed on crusts Of memory and given bitter drink Out of Time’s cruse that overflows with tears!David—(standing before Saul with his harp.) Saul, in a vision I have learned that kings May not be glad.Saul— I, visionless, have learned This of myself! . . What did you see?David— A King, Down by the brook called Cedron; on His head A crown of thorns and in His eyes the tears! Behind Him stood a mighty multitude That melted into distances so far I could not follow! When I woke from sleep I sang my King of Sorrow on the harp.
(David touches the strings and sings.) Down by the stream of the waters Came the King, and His face was sad— Sad with a grief beyond belief, For a bitter grief He had: To be a king means sorrowing— A king may not be glad!
Down by the stream of the waters Came the King, and alone at night; His robe was torn, a crown of thorn Was on His brow so white: They placed it there who did not care— His eyes with tears were bright!
Down by the stream of the waters, Where it flows through the valley of death, He came—the King—all sorrowing; A sob was in His breath: They broke His heart who stood apart— The crowd that wondereth!
(Saul is shaken with tears. Michal steals to his side, soothing him.)Saul—O King of Sorrow! . . . David, who is He?David—Messias! whom our father Jacob saw.Saul—A king may not be glad!
Act V, page 118.
Loruhamah—(kneeling at Saul’s feet.) If you have still the love that made me fair Unto your eyes, then follow far beyond The line of Eastern hills to Babylon, And build those promised crystal domes of dream. Forgetting you were ever Saul the King!Saul—The host is waiting on the heights for Saul! Loruhamah—(clasping her hands and looking up at Saul.) Once you did plead—now Loruhamah pleads. We cannot call the years back from the knees Of Ashtoreth, but life is yet most fair And full of promise for our love delayed. Oh, take me, Saul! . See how I plead to you! Go not from me to death, but go with me To life—sweet life! . . . Surely the gods Are satisfied; they will not grudge the lees Left in the cup of Loruhamah’s love! I have been strong, kept faith; but now my will Flows down, like water from an age-long height Of ice-capped mountain melting in the sun! Saul—(tenderly stroking her hair) There is no music breathed by the harp Sweeter than your dear voice that tells me this, And in the knowledge of your love for me Death will become a falling into sleep; But my last moment thunders with such sound, That all earth’s voices mingle into it! Perchance Jehovah has set me this task In mercy, that my stormy life may end With some wide splendour of a sunset-sky! (Michal comes down and kneels at Loruhama’s side.)Michal—My father, hearken unto Loruhamah! Behold her tears! Can you withstand her tears?Saul—Jehovah calls! Who may withstand His voice? Michal, behold I see where all was dark: David begins where Saul is at an end, And Samuel, anointing him, foretold The House of Jesse following the House Of Kish upon the throne of Israel. Go, tell David that Saul forgave the deed; And when they find me dead on Gilboa, Yield him the crown—yea, place it on his brows, That song and youth’s sweet laughter stir again Throughout this stricken land, and all the world Grow glorious and golden in the sun! (Saul bends over Loruhamah, takes her hands and lifts her to his side.) My Loruhamah, one fair city waits Our coming—fairer than far Babylon— Builded beyond the clouds! I go to lay Its streets with sapphires and adorn the walls With chrysoprase—make every gate a pearl, A moon of summer magic, musical At turning of each graven silver hinge, Melodious as filmy waterfalls! (He turns to Michal who rises at his word to he enfolded with Loruhamah in his arms.) Michal, arise! The time for tears is past. Not on this star shall all the tale be told Of Saul and Loruhamah and their love.
- (There is a sudden and nearing blast of trumpets with a mighty shout of voices. The full, red disk, of the sun almost fills the entrance of the cave. Tenderly Saul frees himself from the embrace of Michal and Loruhamah. He goes towards the steps, ascends, pauses and with arms wide open, looks down at them. Michal turns from Loruhamah and runs to the steps, looking up at Saul. Loruhamah stands as Saul left her, looking away from him with hopeless sorrow in her eyes.)
Michal—My father! O my father! Do not go!Voices—Saul!Loruhamah—(as Saul turns at the sound of the voices and leaves the cave.)Ashtoreth!Michal— My Father!Voices— Saul! Saul! Saul! (Michal sinks weeping at the foot of the steps. Loruhamah comes slowly down to the front with uplifted arms of defiance to the gods.)Loruhamah—Again you gods of darkness and of hate— You thrones and crowns of everlastingness; You high above the multitude of stars, Immovable, hard and unchanging gods! Again you laugh and nod upon our pain And stare down gulfs perpetual of blue, Divinely lifted, deathlessly remote! No more shall you hear aught of stricken me— I go upon my way, supreme in love, And answer back to your indifference Eternal calling of my heart for Saul!
THE PIPER AND THE REED
I am a reed—a little reedDown by the river,A whim of God whose moment’s needWas that the GiverMight blow melodious and longOne cadence of eternal song.
Through me are blownWild whisperings of wind from hillsNo sun hath known.The splendour that Orion spillsOn purple space;The golden loom of Leo’s mane;The scintillance of Vega’s face;Dim unto dark:And great Arcturus’ far refrainFades to a silence that is pain,When, like a lark,Riseth melodious and strongThat cadence of eternal song.God is the Piper—I, the reedDown by the river for his need.He who in beauty goeth byThe marches of the meadowy sky,A-piping on the many reeds His canticle,Paused in His playing;For He foundAn under-soundFailed of the music that He made.Wild winds went straying,Like sheep lost on the daisied meads—Scattered by discord and afraid,Lost from the foldThey knew of old.My God had needOf one more reed—Had need of meTo make the perfect harmony.I am that under-sound,That needed note.Eternally the Piper triedReed after reed until He foundMe growing by the river side.And laughing at the leaves that floatForever down its burnished tide.
How frail my body is—how frailAnd common of its kind;A reed among a field of reedsA-tremble to the wind—The wind that threshes like a flail Until my body bleeds!Yet through me such wild music blowsThe Piper laughs among the stars.Know you the Piper? Little scarsBurn on His brow, each shoulder showsWounds of a knotted scourge that fellTo hurt Him from the hands of Hell!Welcome, O Wind!All hail, O Pain!One little reed—one little reed,To fill the Piper’s far refrain,Is broken till its body bleed;Glad that the Minstrel Lord doth findA tone of His eternal need.
AFTER THE ORDER OF MELCHIZEDEK
I am a priest upon whose head God long ago poured holy oil;He gave to me a Word and said: “With this thou shalt mankind assoil!”
Since I went forth God to obey, Life has revealed me many things—I find it very hard to say What is most dear: The task that brings
Bread to the eater, or the rest That follows toil; the love of friends,Of books, of song—each is most blessed And always with contentment blends.
A stone, a faggot or a flower; A bird in rapture of its flight;December-snow or April-shower; The velvet vastness of the night,
When Mother Moon has left the stars And with the winds gone gossiping—Or leans upon the gate that bars Dawn from untimely entering.
These hold for me unending charm, Fill me with wonderment and aweThat men should ever think of harm, Fencing their lives about with law.
The world is such a lovely place— A jewelled pendant on Love’s chain!I marvel that a human face Should pale with anger or with pain.
I marvel at the cry for bread That thunders round the waking world;The tumult of the legion’s tread That shakes the earth, as souls are hurled
In battle to destroy the souls God grew in His great garden, whenHe won past all His other goals— Triumphant at the birth of men!
Who can behold the dance of Dawn— Juggling with stars like tinselled balls,Vestured in mantle of a wan. White glory whose dim splendour falls
Upon the mountains; and not feel Himself transcendent? Who can hearClangour of wild birds and the peal Of matin-bells across the clear,
Blue sky, commingling with the shout Of children on their way to school,And fail at once to be about God’s business?—As within a pool
You are reflected. Nature shows The miracle of what you are—The highest that Creation knows: Lord of the earth and every star!
I am a priest upon whose head God long ago poured holy oil;He gave to me a Word and said: “With this thou shalt mankind assoil!”
I come from out the Holy Place With benediction for the earth,To wipe the tears from every face And tell the fallen one his worth.
My business is to be a priest Whose holy task is to forgive,To bid the beggar to the feast, To touch the dead and make them live.
I know not any fear of thrones, No claim of Scribe and Pharisee;My word is set to many tones Of lute and harp and psaltery.
I have no temple and no creed, I celebrate no mystic rite;The human heart is all I need Wherein I worship day and night:
The human heart is all I need, For I have found God ever there—Love is the one sufficient creed, And comradeship the purest prayer!
I bow not down to any book, No written page holds me in awe;For when on one friend’s face I look I read the Prophets and the Law!
I need no fountain filled with blood To cleanse my soul from mortal sin;For love is an unbounded flood— Freely I go to wash therein.
Love laughs at boundaries of wrath And is as infinite as God;Breaks down each wall, finds out each path Where wilful, straying feet have trod.
Love is the Word God gave and said: “With it thou shalt mankind assoil!”Then forthwith poured upon my head Anointing of His holy oil!
THE PLOUGHMAN
The upper and the lower springs, The summer-fountains fail;A frowning sky his challenge flings With thunder through the hail;The autumn holds her mantle-folds To veil a pallid brow—She pities me and mourns to see My pain upon the plough:For I must down the furrow fare And cleave the clod with sharpened share.
Witless of wind that finds my face, I lean against the blastAnd plough to my appointed place— Yon sapling like a mast;I plough this way till shut of day, Steady upon the mark;Reckless of cold, the handles hold From dawn until the dark—This thing my duty: cleave the clod, Ploughing the field alone with God!
GIORDANO BRUNO
The Monk of Nola is indeed no more;His cell is empty, and the threefold cordHangs with its cowl beside Saint Peter’s sword!Vainly the Vatican leans on the loreOf Councils; what was everywhere of yoreHeld by the faithful, and with one accord,Yields to the moment of his mighty word,Who looked not always after but before.
Rise from your ashes where yon statue standsIn Campo di fiora! Bruno, speakThat word of thunder to the world abroad:Man is the Sacrament made by Christ’s hands;He is, of life’s ascending slope, the peak—The crown—the consummation of his God!
Even thou, Giovanni, my familiar friendIn whom I trusted? What! thou art afraidTo look at me? Do Bruno’s eyes hurt thee?Nay, do not hide behind the chasublesOf Holy Inquisition; speak thy mind,And tell the Fathers that which they would know:How certain books I wrote traduce the creedsOf Mother Church!
What pleasant nights we spentWithin thy palace; what discourse we hadWhile others slept, and I led thee beyondThe crystal spheres of old to boundless space!What moved thee, O Venetian, to betrayThy friend? . . . Nay, mutter not, nor cross thyself!Giordano hath not made a covenantWith devils! . . . Yea, my Father, read the charge.
So that is what my accusation saith?The Monk of Nola is indeed no more!He was a curious boy who loved to look,Without distraction of crude, painted thingsHung on the wall, tarnished by candle-smoke,Out of the window where he knelt to pray;For he had learned that God is not confined In paint and mortar, that He is revealed,As the Apostle saith, through what He made.He found no virtue in a saint’s thighbone;No miracle in the Madonna’s faceAbove her altar, when the sanctus bellRings and a wafer is become the Christ!Yea, rather was he caught within the loopsOf light thrown by the stars among the vines,Or fastened by the many-coloured cordsOf sunrise. Noonday magic on the grapes;The crickets chirping where the wheat is ripe;The call of birds; the river’s ancient song;Trees and the carnival of summer-flowers;Claimed Bruno when he tried to be a monk.
Then came Copernicus! At first I laughed,Railing with many words: What! Earth so fixed—The central point of heaven, round which the sunWheels and stars turn—a floating sphere in space?Then reason woke within me and I foundCopernicus was right, and went one stepPast my new master—taught that nothing boundsThe universe but law.
Nature is one.One purpose weaves the weft within the warpOf matter, though the stuff be molten suns,Or atoms in the amethyst that gleamsUpon the finger of His Grace—my judge!
When I was but a boy at Nola, fondOf roving, on a summer day I climbedThe hill Cicada; from its height I sawVesuvius was like a cone of grey,In contrast with the vineyards at my feet:Later I stood above Pompeii, foundMy hill was changed to barren, rocky slopes;Round me were many blossoms and the vines!I learned by this illusion of the eyes,To challenge sense with reason—prove no factBy feeling—Fathers, is that heresy?He is an infidel who dares to boundGod’s might! Take now a creed of Mother Church—The Mother whom I love—hold ye one thoughtThat cramps Creation and Omnipotence?Then ye are heretic. Find God in Nature,As ye discover artists by their work.
Ponder the lilies of the field, said Christ.O Priests of Venice! ye who try me hereAgainst my death at Rome for heresy, What do ye know of lilies? Can ye tellThe Monk of Nola how the lilies grow?I knew them ere I learned to sing High Mass,Or hear confession and expound the Book!If only, ye seek God beyond the stars,How can ye hope to find Him Who is near?If ye disdain the portico of heaven,How can ye love the House not made with hands,Eternal in the heavens? Oh, how ye robLife of its joy! How narrow is the worldWherein ye move! Your sky is but a domeOf hammered brass alight with holy wicksPlaced in the great concave; your moon a lampBorne in procession round the altar—earth!God’s truth! ye think as though the universeWere Peter’s Church at Rome, and all the flowersAre waxen—though the world is white with bloom!I break the dome, and exorcise the fearThat haunts the faith of men; I say to them:God stands closer to us than we to self.He is the Soul of our soul. He unitesAll Nature. Grain of incense, drop of oil,Hath Him as much as any Holy Mass! Lift up a broken oleander stalk,A wheaten straw, a pebble round and smoothAnd ye have lifted high the very Host!Man is the Mass; therein God’s love transformsThe elements—making of them His flesh!God is existence; everything is God.Pain, suffering, and sin—aye, death itself—Are shadows creeping down Vesuvius,When the sun rises; shadows disappearAt noontide glory, life is at the morn;Therefore these glooms against the mounting sunFade fast, as men are more aware of God:When life has reached its zenith, there will beNo shadow anywhere of pain and sin,For all will share its glad meridian!
Now, Fathers, will ye send me bound to Rome—A prisoner, like Paul, of Jesus Christ,And doomed to die for witness of my word?Wherein is Bruno heretic? What truthHave ye which I hold not, and even more?Yea, all that is contained within the CreedsAnd, Councils of the Holy Catholic Church,Giordano holds. But faith transcends both creed And council, is the evidence of thingsNot seen. Is faith the journey or the road?Faith is the pilgrim with a scrip and staff,Taking all roads at pleasure. Is the ChurchWeak as to fabric, that the stake must standForever as the symbol of her strength?Dogma that must be buttressed by the banOf excommunication is not truth!Who hates in the defence of what he holds,Or drops one bitter word against the nameOf His antagonist can not be true:The calm of Christ before Caiaphas;Paul’s manner with the Areopagus;All martyred love: bear witness to my word.
And so ye have condemned me! Venice givesMy body unto Rome—this night, perchance,Or on the morrow, I must take the roadOf martyrdom to Rome—how many moreMust travel that same road, because their faithIs overmuch! But old skins ever failNew wine, and from the Branch—Copernicus—Thought-clusters hang, which from the press of TimeWill pour fermenting liquor to destroyYour moulded bottles. Bind me to the stake;Scatter my ashes on the Tiber’s tide;The world will kneel in tears for what ye did!
THE MAN OF KERIOTH
Act II. page 72.
Bartimæus—Mine is no house of dream; ’Tis very real to me and beautiful. O Philip, can you tell me how a bird Feels on the nest when all the speckled eggs Melt underneath her heart to feathered balls Of chirping hunger? How the bleating ewe Finds her three lambs and calls them to her side, Though there be many mothers on the hill? That is their secret never to be told— And mine the certainty of things that eyes Behold and see not.
Act V. page 128.
Mary— But, this I found: A world not ready for this lover-man, Confusing him with images of clay On temple tables, seeking for a sign— A manifesting of his power—his power! God! how the stupid people miss the path That winds past every garden gate to heaven. His power! Oh, it is upon his mouth And in his eyes—the touch—the way of him! Supreme and tender miracle of man, What do they, asking you for any sign?Bartimæus—Ay, you know Christ!Mary—And of these foolish men, Judas is first. Oh, what has blinded him That he can miss the sun on Jesus’ hair!Bartimæus—He pays the price strong men must pay on whom The fretting business of the world depends. Listen—a parable of four men, told By Persian Magi: “When God made the world Four angels watched him turn the star in space— The first said: Give to me, O God, thy star! The second: Tell me, God, how it was made! The third: Why is there any world at all? The fourth knelt to adore and went away To make another like God’s golden star.” These souls are known in human history: The man of business, then the scientist, The sage and poet. Judas is the first, And we the last—only as men rise up From holding and accounting for a star To that pure worship of the beautiful In holy art of giving like the Christ’s, Will they no longer clamour for a sign— The sign will be the service of their love. Mary—The way to Christ must be as you have said— Past any need that holds one bound by love Of builded things and faith in ancient law, Customs and forms. A spirit must be free To tread the upper air of day with him.Bartimæus—Ay, that is Christ, but men must travel far Before they find the freedom of his feet.
BILL BORAM
O beauty of the autumn days that die, O magic of the wind and shout of seas,O lifting of the little wings that fly, O marvel of gay blossoms and the trees!Join with the miracle of human hearts, The tender touching of all friendly hands,Until the figured veil of Nature parts To show how near to flesh the spirit stands.Come, love of life, and lift the gate that bars Man from his lost dominion of all things;And let there be a going up to stars With tumult of his long-unfolded wings.
THE SPINNER
Something is born in me to-day—A thought of the world and the world’s way.The world is spunOut of the substance of the sun.
The sun is a silk cocoonWith a bit of it broken—that’s the moon;And a Spinner standsLetting the thread run through her hands.
The zodiac is her spinning-wheel,And the thread is wound on a pinioned reelHeld by Venus and by Mars,As it whirls in a belt of many stars.
The Spinner dreams while the wheel turns round.Her dreams come true as the thread is wound.Into the thread her dreams are spunOut of the substance of the sun.
And of those dreams that all come true,Give me a sky of April, blueAs this bit of a broken shellFound last summer where it fell
Under the robin’s nest—empty now,Where it swings like a cradle on the bough:Give me an April sky, and thenGive me my boyhood back again!
Spinner, to me it seemsMine are the best of all your dreams;Therefore I sing while my days are woundInto the world, as your wheel turns round.
A house, a barn, a garden: theseAre my earliest memoriesDreamed by you. Spinner, as you spunEarth from the substance of the sun.
Little house, do you feel sad—Lonely for the love you had,And empty, too, like the robin’s nest?I come back to you for rest.
Under your gable-thatch two eyesStudy me now, with a tender, wiseLook, as of oneStudying the features of her son.
Study me hard and search me through,For I was never afraid of you: Here in my heart is an ancient thing—Need of the chick for a mother’s wing.
I come wearily back,Over the undulating trackWorn by the feet of those who findPeace on the home-trails of the mind—
Trails that lead from a hill of years,Gashed by the torrents of old tears,Back to a boyhood’s love of you—House in a sky of April blue.
Four square panes my window make;Through it I look when I awake.The sun is high above the hillWhere all the trees are standing still,
Like soldiers on a dress parade.The trees are very much afraidOf Captain Sun, and so am I;His blue cloak is an April sky.
I open the window and look out.I am so happy that I shout.Comes a joyous answer—hark!He’s under the window, that’s his bark.
O little brave comrade, black-and-tan,Call to the boy; dismiss the man,Fretted and worn. I come to youUnder a sky of April blue.
A jug of water, an old, cracked bowl,Bid me be clean of body and soul;And, as I splash with reckless hands,Something within me understands
How body and soul together seemPart of the dreamer and her dream—How body and soul together runOut of the substance of the sun.
Into the bowl I dip my face.Glory of God and Christ’s fair graceCome with the water, and I seeJohn at the river in Galilee:
God in the water clear and cold—Christ in the white towel that I hold—John in my body rubbed and dry,The prophet of an April sky.
Grey wool shirt and stockings, too,Little patched trousers faded blue, Hobnailed boots with cowhide strings—You are such transcendent things!
White robes on the martyred saints,Halos and harps the artist paints,Mean no more to God up thereThan these little-boy things I wear;
For I know that all things blendInto the dream, and, I contend,Hobnailed boots and harps are spunOut of the substance of the sun.
Spinner, retard your wheel awhile.Slow on the thread, there. Do you smile?Christ or Cæsar, it’s all the sameStuff of your dream—what’s in a name!
Unwind your thread to my April day.I have so much to see and say,And what I see of myself is blentWith the blue of your far-away firmament.
House of my father, is he here?Speak to me, speak to me. Mother dear.God of the living, are you ableTo spread for me my breakfast-table?
I want the old-time, morning chatterTo click of spoons and teacups’ clatter;The clock upon the wooden shelfBetween two dogs of shiny delf;
The oval mat upon the floorBetween the dresser and the door;The window where, whatever comes,Bloom mother’s red geraniums.
For you have dreamed the things I name,And on your spinning-wheel of flameMy day of April blue have spunOut of the substance of the sun:
The sun that is a silk cocoon—A bit of it broken, called the moon;And over your arm the thread is curledFor the pinioned reel that winds the world:
The world that is coloured by what you dream:Tragedy, laughter, gloom and gleam;Till the last soft thread of your task is spun,And there’s no more moon and no more sun.
THE ANOINTED
Give me the faith that Archimedes had,Who pondered deeply of a balanced beamTo lift the world. What! think you he was mad,Or talking as one babbles in a dream?Was it a dream? Nay; through the quickened bloodOf such a man runs that new rapture knownBy one who, ages ere the glacial flood,First, in defence of life, heaved high a stoneAnd hurled it bravely at the sabre-tooth,Lurking to tear the woman and the child—Hurled it and slew him as he sprang! Forsooth,The gods have ever on the dreamer smiled,Have waited till he dared his many dreamsOf great adventure—fulcrum, lever, stone.Always they wait; and when new glory gleams,Where once was darkness, like a moon-ray thrownUpon wild water, lo, the gods are glad.Be, then, the folded wings of thought unfurledTo dare the untried spaces of the sky.Challenge the ancient terror. Lift the world,Though, on the sturdy beam, men crucifyThe hands that pressed only to place earth farBeyond the glitter of the highest star.
POSTLUDE
Hold your dream and keep your song, Brave upon the highway;If you only will be strong, Your way shall then be my way.Shun the tavern, go past the gate—What do we care if the hour is late,When God, and you, and I togetherSleep in the night on the gorse and heather?
Hold your dream and keep your song, Though the sun is setting.Day is short and night is long; Sleep is fine forgetting.Turn from the lure of the lighted town,Breasting the hill and daring the down;Heather and gorse are good for a bed,And the stars are plenty overhead.