BOOK III.

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

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 paean 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 Here, 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 Here, the sweet smile

Of Cypris, fair Athene'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 entranced 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 entranced 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!