EPODE.

Beyond the night, down o'er the labouring East,

I see light's harbinger of dawn released:

Upon the false gleam of the ante-dawn,

Lo, the fair heaven of day-pursuing morn!

Beyond the lampless sleep and perishing death

That hold my heart, I feel my new life's breath,

I see the face my spirit-shape shall have

When this frail clay and dust have fled the grave.

Beyond the night, the death of doubt, defeat,

Rise dawn and morn, and life with light doth meet,

For the great Cause, too,— sure as the sun yon ray

Shoots up to strike the threatening clouds and say;

“I come, and with me comes the victorious Day!”

When I was young, the muse I worshipped took me,

Fearless, a lonely heart, to look on men.

“‘ Tis yours,” said she, “to paint this show of them

Even as they are!” Then smiling she forsook me.

Wherefore with passionate patience I withdrew,

With eyes from which all loves, hates, hopes, and fears,

Joys aureole, and the blinding sheen of tears,

Were purged away. And what I saw I drew.

Then, as I worked remote, serene, alone,

A child-girl came to me and touched my cheek,

And lo her lips were pale, her limbs were weak,

Her eyes had thirst's desire and hunger's moan.

She said: “I am the soul of this sad day

Where thousands toil and suffer hideous Crime,

Where units rob and mock the empty time

With revel and rank prayer and deaths display!”

I said: “O child, how shall I leave my songs,

My songs and tales, the warp and subtle woof

Of this great work and web, in your behoof

To strive and passionately sing of wrongs?

“Child, is it nothing that I here fulfil

My heart and soul? that I may look and see

Where Homer bends and Shakspere smiles on me,

And Goethe praises the unswerving will?”

She hung her head, and straight, without a word,

Passed from me. And I raised my conscious face

To where, in beauteous power in her place,

She stood, the muse, my muse, and watched and heard.

Her proud and marble brow was faintly flushed;

Upon her flawless lips, and in her eyes

A mild light flickered as the young sunrise,

Glad, sacred, terrible, serene and hushed.

Then I cried out, and rose with pure wrath wild,

Desperate with hatred of Fate's slavery

And this cold cruel demon. With that cry,

I left her, and sought out the piteous child.

“Darling,‘ tis nothing that I shed and weep

These tears of fire that wither all the heart,

These bloody sweats that drain and sear and smart,

I love you, and you'll kiss me when I sleep!”