ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{The Drama of Kings 1871}

                                                                                                                                                                 261

CHORIC INTERLUDE:

THE TWO VOICES.

                                                                                                                                                                 263

CHORIC INTERLUDE:

THE TWO VOICES.

SEMI-CHORUS I.

SPIRIT of England, art thou sleeping?
     Soul of the Ocean, art thou fled?
Behold thy Sister is wailing and weeping;
The waves are leaping, the storm is creeping
     Hither to burst on thy helmless head.
England, awake! for the sword gleams over thee—
Awake, awake! or the tomb shall cover thee—
     England, awake!—if thou be not dead.
The waves are crying, the clouds are flying,
     Fair France is dying—her blood flows red,
Europe in thunder is rent asunder,
     But the mother of nations is lying dead.

                                                                                                                                                                 264

SEMI-CHORUS II.

Weep; and pray that our tears may wake her;
     Pray;—tho’ prayers have been vain of old;
Scream;—tho’ the thunder is weak to shake her—
In the name of the Maker, awake her, awake her:
     The storm hath struck—let the bells be toll’d.
England, awake! they are weaving a shroud for thee;
Awake, awake, we are wailing aloud for thee:
     They will bury thee quick, for thy pulse is cold.
O God! to be sleeping, with thy children weeping,
     And the red death leaping round farm and fold:
Dark is the motion of heaven and ocean.
     Why is the mother of nations cold?

                                                                                                                                                             265 [note]

FIRST VOICE.

     Fly to me, England! . . . Hie to me
         Now in mine hour of woe;
     Haste o’er the sea, ere I die, to me;
     Swiftly, my Sister; stand nigh to me,
         Help me to strike one blow!
     Over the land and the water,
         Swifter than winds can go,
     Up the red furrows of slaughter,
         Down on the lair of the foe:
Now, when my children scream madly and cling to me;
Now, when I droop o’er the dying they bring to me;
Come to me, England! O speak to me, spring to me!
         Hurl the invader low!                                                            [l.xiii]

SECOND VOICE.

     Woe to thee! I would go to thee
         Faster than wind can flee,
     Doth not my fond heart flow to thee?
     Would I might rise and show to thee                                             266
         All that my love would be!
     But behold, they bind me and blind me;
         Cowards, yet born of me:
     They fasten my hands behind me—
         I am chain’d to a rock in the sea.
Alas! what availeth my grief while I sigh for thee?
Traitors have trapt me—I struggle, I cry for thee;
Come to thee, Sister?—yea, were it to die for thee!
         O that my hands were free!

FIRST VOICE.

     Pray for me, Sister! say for me
         Prayers until help is nigh;
     Send thy loud voice each way for me,
     Trouble the night and the day for me,
         Waken the world and the sky;
     Say that my heart is broken,
         Say that my children die,
     With blood and tears for thy token,
         Plead till the nations reply;                                                        267
Plead to the sea and the earth and the air for me—
Move the hard heart of the world till it care for me—
Come to me, England!—at least, say a prayer for me,
         Startle the winds with a cry.

SECOND VOICE.

     Doom on me, Hell’s own gloom on me,
         Blood and a lasting blame!
     Already the dark days loom on me,
     Cold as the shade of the tomb on me;
         I am call’d by the coward’s name.
     Shall I heark to a murder’d nation?
         Shall I sit unarm’d and tame?
     Then woe to this generation,
         Tho’ out of my womb they came.
Betrayed by my children, I wail and I call for thee;
Not tears, but my heart’s blood, O Sister, should fall for thee:
My children are slaves, or would strike one and all for thee:                268
         Shame on them! shame! shame! shame!

FIRST VOICE.

     Pain for thee! all things wane for thee
         In truth, if this be so;
     Fatal will be the stain for thee:
     Wild tears mine eyes shall rain for thee                                        [l.vi]
         Since thou art left so low;
     For death can come once only,
         Tho’ bitterly comes the blow;
     But shame abideth, and lonely
         Feels a sick heart come and go.
Homeless and citiless, yet I can weep for thee;
Fast comes the morrow with anguish most deep for thee;
Dying, I mourn for the sorrow they heap for thee.
         Thine is the bitterest woe.

                                                                                                                                                                 269

SECOND VOICE.

     Mourn me not, Sister, scorn me not!
         Pray yet for mine and me!
     Tho’ the old proud fame adorn me not,
     The sore grief hath outworn me not—
         Wait; I will come to thee;
     I will rend my chains asunder,
         I will tear my red sword free,
     I will come with mine ancient thunder,
         I will strike the foe to his knee.
Yea, tho’ the knife of the butcher is nigh to thee;
Yea, while thou screamest and echoes reply to thee;
Comfort, O France! for, in God’s name, I fly to thee,
         Sword in hand, over the sea.

SEMI-CHORUS I.

Spirit of England, false vows wrong her!
     Peace; she waiteth in vain for thee.

                                                                                                                                                                 270

SEMI-CHORUS II.

Ah, that thy voice is a spell no longer,
     Ah, that the days of thy truth should flee.

CHORUS.

Sing a song, her heart to make stronger,
     Sing what the perfect State should be.

SEMI-CHORUS I.

Spirit of England, thou whose hoary
     Cliffs gleam bright to the gleaming sea—

SEMI-CHORUS II.

Shut thy coffers and think of glory,
     Nor pray beside them on bended knee.

CHORUS.

Read in sorrow thine own bright story,
     Queen of the States that were brave and free.

                                                                                                                                                               271 [note]

CHORIC EPODE.

Where is the perfect State
Early most blest and late,
     Perfect and bright?
’Tis where no Palace stands
Trembling on shifting sands
     Morning and night.
’Tis where the soil is free,
Where, far as eye may see,
Scatter’d o’er hill and lea,
     Homesteads abound;
Where clean and broad and sweet
(Market, square, lane, and street,
Belted by leagues of wheat),
     Cities are found.

Where is the perfect State
Early most blest and late
     Gentle and good?
’Tis where no lives are seen
Huddling in lanes unseen,
     Crying for food;
’Tis where the home is pure,                                                     272
’Tis where the bread is sure,
’Tis where the wants are fewer,
     And each want fed;
Where plenty and peace abide,
Where health dwells heavenly-eyed,
Where in nooks beautified
     Slumber the Dead.

Where is the perfect State
Unvexed by Wrath and Hate,
     Quiet and just?
Where to no form of creed
Fetter’d are thought and deed,
     Reason and trust?
’Tis where the great free mart
Broadens, while from its heart
Forth the great ships depart,
     Blown by the wind;
’Tis where the wise men’s eyes,
Fixed on the earth and skies,
Seeking for signs, devise
     Good for mankind.

Where is the perfect State,                                                      273
Holy and consecrate,
     Blessedly wrought?
’Tis where all waft abroad
Wisdom and faith in God,
     Beautiful thought.
’Tis where the poet’s sense
Deepens in reverence,
While to his truths intense
     Multitudes turn.
Where the bright sons of art,
Walking in street or mart,
Feel mankind’s reverent heart
     Tremble and yearn.

Say, is the perfect State,
Strong and self-adequate,
     There where it stands,
Perfect in praise of God,
Casting no thoughts abroad
     Over the lands?
Nay; for by each man’s side
Hangeth a weapon tried;
Nay, for wise leaders guide
     Under the Lord.                                                                 274
Nor, when a people cries,
Smiling with half-shut eyes
Waiteth this State,—but flies,
     Lifting the Sword.

Where is the perfect State?
Not where men sit and wait,
     Selfishly strong;
While some lost sister State
Crieth most desolate,
     Ruin’d by wrong:
Not where men calmly sleep,
Tho’ all the world should weep;
Not where they merely heap
     Gold in the sun:
Not where in charity
Men with mere dust are free,
When o’er the weary sea
     Murder is done.

Which is the perfect State?
Not the self-adequate
     Coward and cold;                                                              275
Not the brute thing of health,
Swollen with gather’d wealth,
     Sleepy and old.
Nay, but the mighty land
Ever with helping hand,
Ever with flaming brand,
     Rising in power:
This is the fair and great,
This the evangel State,
Letting no wrong’d land wait
     In the dark hour.

This is the perfect State,
Early in arms and late;
     Blessed at home;—
Ready at Freedom’s cry
Forward to fare and die,
     Over the foam.
Loving States great and small,
Loving home best of all,
Yet at the holy call
     Springing abroad:
This is the royal State,                                                             276
Perfect and adequate,
Equal to any fate,
     Chosen of God!

[Notes:
Page 265: This section of the ‘Choric Interlude’ with the First and Second Voices is included as ‘The Two Voices. (January 1871.)’ in the ‘Songs of the Terrible Year’ section in Volume II of the 1874 H. S. King version of The Poetical Works, and the subsequent 1884 Chatto & Windus edition, with the following alterations:
Page 265, l. xiii: Hurl the assassin low! 
Page 268, l. vi: Dying, I mourn and ’plain for thee,

Page 271: The ‘Choric Epode’ is included as ‘The Perfect State’ in the ‘Songs of the Terrible Year’ section in Volume II of the 1874 H. S. King version of The Poetical Works, and the subsequent 1884 Chatto & Windus edition.]

                                                                                                                                                                 277

THE DRAMA OF KINGS.
_____

PART III.

THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS.

                                                                                                                                                                 279

SPEAKERS.

_____

THE KAISER.

PRINCES AND LEADERS OF THE GERMAN HOST.

THE ROYAL CHANCELLOR.

A BONAPARTIST OFFICER.

PROTESTANT PRIESTS.

CHORISTERS.

A FRENCH DEPUTY.

THE GOVERNOR OF PARIS.

A DESERTER.

MESSENGERS.

CHORUS OF SISTERS OF THE RED CROSS.

_____

SCENE—The German Camp before Paris.

TIME—Winter, 1871.

                                                                                                                                                                 281

SCENE.— HEIGHTS BEFORE PARIS, AND EXTERIOR OF A PALACE.
A Winter’s Night.

Chorus of Sisters of the Red Cross.

                                                                                                                                                                 [note]

CHORUS.

CITY of loveliness and light and splendour,
     City of Sorrows, hearken to our cry;
               O Mother tender,
         O mother marvellously fair,
         And fairest now in thy despair,
     Look up! O be of comfort! Do not die!
               Let the black hour blow by.

Cold is the night, and colder thou art lying.
     Gnawing a stone sits Famine at thy feet
               Shivering and sighing;
         Blacker than Famine, on thy breast,
         Like a sick child that will not rest,
     Moans Pestilence; and hard by, with fingers fleet,                          282
               Frost weaves his winding-sheet.

Snow, snow: the wold is white as one cold lily.
     Snow: it is frozen round thee as hard as lead;
               The wind blows chilly;
         Thou liest white in the dim night,
         And in thine eyes there is no light,
     And the Snow falleth, freezing on thy head
               And covering up thy dead.

Ah, woe! thy hands, no longer flower-bearing,
     Press stony on thy heart; and thy heart bleeds;                             [l.xi]
               Thine eyes despairing
         Watch while the fierce Fire clings and crawls
         Through falling roofs and crumbling walls.
     Ah, woe! to see thee thus, the wild soul pleads,
                   The wild tongue intercedes.

O, we will cry to God, and pray and plead for thee;                            283
     We with a voice that troubles heaven and air
               Will intercede for thee;
         We will cry for thee in thy pain
         Louder than storm and wind and rain;
     What shape among the nations may compare
               With thee, most lost, most fair?

Yea, thou hast sinned and fallen, O City splendid,
     Yea, thou hast passed through days of shamefullest woe—
               And lo! they are ended—
         Famine for famine, flame for flame,
         Sorrow for sorrow, shame for shame,
     Verily thou hast found them all;—and lo!
               Night and the falling snow.

Let Famine eat thy heart, let Fire and Sorrow
     Hold thee, but turn thy patient eyes and see
               The dim sweet morrow.
         Better be thus than what thou wast,                                          284
         Better be stricken and overcast,
     Martyr’d once more, as when to all things free
               Thy lips cried “Liberty!”

Let the Snow fall! thou shalt be sweeter and whiter;
     Let the Fire burn! under the morning sky
               Thou shalt look brighter.
         Comfort thy sad soul through the night;
         Turn to the east and pray for light;
     Look up! O be of comfort! do not die!
               Let the black hour blow by!

[Notes:
Page 281: This Chorus is included as ‘Ode Before Paris. (December 1870.)’ in the ‘Songs of the Terrible Year’ section in Volume II of the 1874 H. S. King version of The Poetical Works, and the subsequent 1884 Chatto & Windus edition, with the following alteration:
Page 282, l. xi: Press stony on thy heart; and that heart bleeds; ]

CHORUS. The ROYAL CHANCELLOR.

CHORUS.

See where slow-footed, silent, and alone,
Cometh the grim gray soul of all this woe.
He climbs the knoll, and in the frosty moonlight
Standing gigantic, looketh silently
On the imperial City that afar
Looms as a phantasm through the vitreous air.

                                                                                                                                                                 285

CHANCELLOR.

Paris! they did not lie who call’d thee fair;
And never wert thou fairer than this night
When God and Man conspire to write thy doom.

CHORUS.

He speaks; and brightly on his glittering helm,
And on his frosty face and grizzled beard,
Glimmers the silver radiance of the moon.

CHANCELLOR.

What women are ye?—who, clad like Hecaté,
Gather and turn your faces white one way,
Hither, like lilies wind-blown on a mere?

CHORUS.

Poor sisters, bearing in our hands the Cross.

CHANCELLOR.

What do ye abroad, at midnight, and alone?

                                                                                                                                                                 286

CHORUS.

Searching the heaps of slain lest any live.

CHANCELLOR.

From what land are ye? Children of what mother?

CHORUS.

Daughters of France, for whom we weep this night.

CHANCELLOR.

Weep not for France, She reapeth her own seed.

CHORUS.

Yea—but we sicken, lest she wholly die.

CHANCELLOR.

Die? Let France die; for she hath lived too long,
The white-skin’d Leper of a wholesome world,
Creeping from porch to porch of peaceful dwellings,                          287
Clad in fine linen and with scented locks,
Leaving in her foul trail disease and doom,
Heart-eating ennui, and accurst desire
Bred of the marrow of corrupted bones.
Die? If a dagger-stroke could slay this France,
This unclean harlot, this infecting fraud,
Envenoming all lips that she doth kiss,
Cursing the lips that will not kiss at all,
I would strike home this night unto her heart,
And bury her to the deep and solemn sound
Of thanksgiving from a world purified.
But since I cannot slay her as I would,
Since she is many-lived and subtle and quick,
We will try Fire, and let it on her heel
Fasten like a red wolf and drag her down;
And in her snake’s-eyes we will flash the sword
So that she screams remembering her sins;
And she shall see those Temples desolate
Wherein she sat with sick face altar-wards
Worshipping Thammuz and all gods obscene;                                    288
And while she moans, out of the earth shall steal
Famine, and like a toad slip down her throat,
And in the belly of her coil and spit;
Frost too shall fasten on her quivering limbs,
And slowly, with blunt teeth, bite to the bone;
And then, perchance in the eleventh hour,
This France may gaze upon the world she curst,
And pray to God to heal her long disease,
Or send swift lightning down, and let her die!

CHORUS.

Why art thou bitter? Is thy wrong so great?

CHANCELLOR.

Mountainous, women; and revenge is sweet.

                                                                                                                                                                 289

CHORUS.

Name not revenge, but give thy wrong a name.

CHANCELLOR.

I am a Teuton—see, my wrong is said.

CHORUS.

Teuton or Frank, utter thy wrong from France.

CHANCELLOR.

Then listen. Ye are women, and ye weep
For France who bare ye; I am a man, and born
Out of a fruitful and a perfect womb;
And not with feverish fancies, peevish care,
Nor yet with easy tears, yet passing well,
In mine own fashion, more with deeds than words,
I cling to her that bare me—Germany,—
Yea, she who yonder sits beside the Rhine,
And with large eyes that measure heaven and earth                            290
Looks hither. Shall I tell an old wife’s tale
Of how your France in her most drunken hour
Sprang to our vineyards, to our tranquil fields,
And struck, with all a furious harlot’s hate
For what is purer than her own foul self,
At the great mother,—slew her shrieking children,—
Drove her from lair to lair across the dark
Hungry and naked, while the moaning babe
Drank from her wounded breast not milk but blood?
Shall I remind ye of that fiery scourge
France held with maniac-strength to lash the world,
Till the world rose, and tore it from her grasp,
And flung it far into the silent sea?
Or of that other meaner, gaudier whip,
A baby’s rattle, a mere infant’s toy,
Snatch’d from her trembling hand and flung despised
Into a corner only yesterday?
These things are stories for old men to tell,                                          291
Women to wonder at, and bards to rhyme.
How! shall a harlot threaten all earth’s kings?
What! shall a painted reveller of the stews,
Full-teeth’d with all the spitefulness of lust,
Crawl with a dagger up and down the earth
So that no mortal man can sleep at night?
Shall France, this Messalina of the nations,
This thing of many lovers, luring all,
Constant to none, adulterous with all,
Constant to nothing but inconstancy,
Shall this crown’d strumpet break the peaceful air
Now with red revel, now with the sharp sword,
Just as the whim comes, as the wine inspires,
As peevish passion and unnatural lust,
Impotent to allay their own foul fire,
Urge on and prompt the miserable will?
No, but an arm, a man’s hand clad in mail,
Hath struck one blow, and there the scarecrow lies,
And I, and every man that walks the world,                                       292
May sleep more freely now this thing is done.

CHORUS.

If it be so, then leave her now to God—
Nor trample on a thing so wholly fallen.

CHANCELLOR.

Nay, God’s avenging Furies first shall work.

CHORUS.

To what avail, since she is impotent?

CHANCELLOR.

That she may taste the cup of ills she gave.

CHORUS.

She hath drunk deep; O let her drink no more!

                                                                                                                                                                 293

CHANCELLOR.

’Tis but begun. She must be bound with cords,
And gagged, and stript of all her gauds and gold.

CHORUS.

Ah, woe! what shall she do thus bound and stript?

CHANCELLOR.

Her sons shall till the ground and fill her mouth,
Her daughters weave her homely homespun raiment,
And when she hath knelt and sworn a mighty oath,
And writ this oath upon a charter down,
Why we may loose her bonds and set her free.

CHORUS.

To wander out o’er the waste world in shame.

                                                                                                                                                                   294

CHANCELLOR.

Peace, women; for these things shall come to pass,
Since it is written he who cares to sow
Shall reap the harvest, be it grain or weed.
Let France walk forth in sackcloth, let her wrists
Wear gyves; set, too, a fool’s-cap on her head,
With “Glory” for a label writ in blood;
Then let a trumpeter before her go,
And let him sound, and between whiles aloud
Read the long record of enormities,
And ending each, strike sharply with the scourge
On the bare shoulders of the penitent;
And let the little children of the earth
Follow and point, while good wives raise their hands,
And honest burghers nodding pipe in mouth,
Standing at doors with broad good-humour’d stare,                            295
Mutter aloud, “Thank God! the world is free!”

CHORUS.

Mother! faintly on thy dark towers beaming
     Yonder moon is sailing eastward slow;
All around thee silent hills are dreaming,
     Coldly sheeted in the wintry snow;
From thy husht heart stealing to the ocean,
Underneath the blue ice dimly gleaming,
Crawls the river with a serpent motion,
     Wafting the chill whisper of thy woe.

O for words to shine upon and cheer thee
     Where thou liest dark and desolate!
Mother! shapes not human gather near thee,
     Crouch’d beneath the night-shade of thy fate;
Spirits watch thee where thou liest stricken.
Pray, and while thou prayest they shall hear thee—
Comfort!—they who strike thee may be stricken,                               296
     Gathering like storm-clouds at thy gate.

On thy crownless head are dust and ashes,
     On thy fair white throat are marks of flame—
Low thou liest, drooping proud eyelashes,
     Clenching hands and heaving breasts in shame;
Naked to the frost-wind art thou lying;
Snow-white is thy face, and yet it flashes,
Answering the last look of the dying,
     While they seek thine eyes and name thy name.

’Tis a name that shook the trembling nations
     Trumpeted upon the heights of old;
’Tis a name the earth with acclamations
     Murmured, dancing round thy Throne of Gold;
’Tis the name of earth’s sublimest schemer;                                        297
’Tis the name that freed the generations:
Still the same, grown sadder and supremer,
     Blesseder, O Martyr, twenty-fold.

By the flag with thine own heart’s-blood gory,
     Lifted up and waved in the world’s eyes;
By the strange and ne’er forgotten story
     Of the flight of Kings and death of Lies;
By the light that never since hath dwindled,
Man again shall see thee in thy glory;
By the fire upon the mountains kindled—
     Beautiful, a Queen, thou shalt arise.

Bitterer than gall have been the days for thee,
     Yet they shall be blessed days indeed,
For the very blood thereof shall raise for thee
     Men and women of diviner seed.
Weary of fulfilling what was written,                                                    298
Even the Avenging Angel prays for thee!
Smiter of the nations, thou art smitten—
     Freer of the nations, be thou freed!

Meantime, sleep!—worn with thy weary yearning—
     Sleep a space beneath the stars this night;
With thy many watch-fires dimly burning,
     Scatter’d red upon the wold snow-white,
Slumber in the dark, O mother City!
O’er thee, dim and strange to our discerning,
Miraculously fair, a Shape of Pity
     Waiteth with a drawn Sword and a Light.

Blessed is the Light in his hand swinging,
     Waving bright white pinions like a dove;
Blessed is the Sword that he is bringing,
     Such as holy spirits wield above;
Such another brand arose in beauty
O’er the Gate of Paradise up-springing.
Mother, hearken—it is the Sword of Duty;
     Mother, hearken—it is the Light of Love!

Awakening, in one strong hand, O mother,                                         299
     Take the shining weapon of the free,
And the sweet Lamp grasping in the other,
     Lift it high that all the world may see.
Bought with bloody tears and bitterest sorrow,
They are thine for ever, martyr-mother!
Thou shalt wear them on some golden morrow,
     Dawn shall come, the storm of God shall flee.

And because thy queenly robe is riven,
     Thou shalt win a raiment star-enwrought—
Under the new dawn and the blue heaven
     Thou shalt wear this raiment blood hath bought;
Further, since thy heart hath cast off weakness,
For thy forehead shall a crown be given.
Mother, hearken—it is the Robe of Meekness;
     Mother, hearken—it is the Crown of Thought!

O, but all the nations shall adore thee                                                  300
     When thy days of bitterness are fled;
With the Robe of Meekness shining o’er thee,
     With the Lamp of Love to light thy tread,
Clad in lily raiment, O my mother,
Holding in one hand the light before thee,
Lifting up the bright Sword in the other,
     Smiling, with the Crown upon thy head!

Dream of it this night, O queen of nations,—
     Dream of it, tho’ crusht and undertrod,—
Freer of the souls of generations,
     Raise that face of sorrow from the sod;
Casting off thy sins and thy disgraces,
Issuing from utter tribulations,
Struggling from the serpent’s fierce embraces,
     Pass along the narrow path of God.

                                                                                                       [note]

The ROYAL CHANCELLOR.

How long shall I to this sick world, this mass
Of social sores, this framework of disease,
This most infected many-member’d earth,                                          301
Play the hard surgeon, dexterous in my craft,
Impassive, smiling with a shrunken heart,
And hated by the very thing I cure?
Why now, this night a pen-stroke like a knife
Falls, and at dawn the people corporate
May feel one limb the less; should the pen fail,
A sword-stroke settles all, and the rich life
That oozed into the limb and wasted there,
Withdrawn into the body of the state
Deepens the blood to livelier crimson, strikes
Fresh thrills of fire through the electric brain.
Europe forsooth is piteously sick,
Polluted every fibre with old sores
And new diseases, and I shall not fail
In my cold healing mission, though it yields
Its life up, agonizing ’neath my hand.

To stand this night alone with Destiny,                                              [l.xviii]
Alone in all the world beneath the stars,
And hold the string that makes the puppets dance,                              302
Is something; but to feel the steadfast will
Deepen, the judgment clear itself, the gaze
Grow keener, all the purpose that was dim
Brighten distinct in the serene still light
Of conquest—that is more; more than all power,
More than lip-homage, more than crowns and thrones,
More than the world; for it is life indeed.
O how the dreams and hopes and plans cohere!
How the great phalanx broadens! Like a wave
It washes Europe, and before its sweep
The lying idols, based on quicksand, shift,
Totter, and fall: strewn with the wreck and dead,                              [l.xiii]
It shrieks and gathers up a flashing crest
In act to drown the lingering life of France.
Wave of the Teuton, is it wonderful                                                  [l.xvi]
The grand old King sees in thy victory                                                 303
The strength and wrath of God?

                                       Here then I pause
And (let me whisper it to mine own heart)
I tremble. I have played with fire; behold,
It hath devour’d God’s enemy and mine;
And tamely at my bidding croucheth now
With luminous eyes half closed. This fire is Truth,
And by it I shall rise or fall. This fire
Is very God’s—I know it; and thus far
God to my keeping hath committed it.
What next? and next? There at my feet lies France,
Bound, stricken, screaming,—yonder, good as dead,
Pluckt of his fangs, the imperial adder crawls,
Tame as a mouse. I have struck down these twain,
The Liar, and the creature of the Liar;
I have slain these twain with an avenging flame,
And while I stand victorious comes a voice
Out of the black abysses of the earth                                                  304
Whereat I pause and tremble. ’Tis so easy
To cast down Idols! The tide so pitilessly
Washes each name from the waste sands of time!
’Twas yestermorn the Man of Mysteries fell—
Whose turn comes next?                                                                   [l.vi]

                         Not thine, not thine, at least,
O sovereign Lord and King! thou great grey head,
Simple and child-like in the aureole
Thou deemest holy,—no, thou shalt not fall;
But rather, like Empedocles of old,
1 who have led thee on, thy loving slave,
Would plunge into the crater, and with life
Appease the awful hunger of the earth.
From Italy to the blue Baltic rolls                                                      [l.xv]
A voice, a wind, a murmur in the air,
A tone full of the sense of winds and waters
And the faint whispers from ethereal fields,
A cry of anguish and of mystery
Echoed by the volcano in whose depths
The monarchs one by one have disappeared.                                      305
And men who hear it answer back one word,
“Liberty!”—Cities echo through their streets;
The word is wafted on from vale to vale:
Heart-drowsy Albion answers with a cheer,
Feeble yet clear; the great wild West refrains;
Italy thunders, and Helvetia
Blows the wild horn high up among her hills;
France, wounded, dying, stretch’d beneath my feet,
Gnaws at her bonds and shrieks in mad accord
(For she indeed first gave the thing a name);
And even the wily Russian, with his yoke
Prest on innumerable groaning necks,
Sleek like the serpent, smooths his frosty cheek
To listen, and half-smiling hisses back
The strange word “Liberty!” between his teeth,
And shivers with a bitterer sense of cold
Than ever seized him in the lonely realm                                             306
O’er which he paceth hungry and alone.

                                                                                                       [note]

CHORUS.

Light on the brow
     Of the hill of Time,
What light art thou,
Whither all men now
     Turn eyes and climb?
Still gleaming afar,
     While the wild days go,
Still shining a Star
     In the region of snow:
We crave thee, we cry for thee,
We faint and we sigh for thee,—
     Thou shinest above,—
Yea, we dare die for thee,
     Light that we love.

Not yet, O Light,
     Alas not yet,
May we reach the height
Where dim and bright
     Thy lamp is set,—
Like waves we whiten                                                             307
     In the waste below,
We darken and brighten,
     We ebb and we flow:
Dim stretch the heights above
All days and nights above,—
     Past the storms stream,—
Light of all lights above
     Art thou a dream?

No dream, O far
     Sweet Light and strange!
Not as dreams are,
But a thronëd Star
     That doth not change!
O’er the world thou hast gleamed
     Since the first dim day:
Dreams have been dream’d
     And have passed away;
All dreams have burn’d to thee,
All days have turn’d to thee,
     O Liberty!
And as all have yearned to thee
     We yearn and see!

On the mountain’s brow                                                           308
     Dimly discern’d,
What Light art thou,
Whither all turn now
     As they ever turn’d?—
The great earth flowers to thee,
     The earth’s tongues name thee,
All things, all hours, to thee
     Upturn, and claim thee;—
And the world’s waves wail for thee,
And our cheeks flash pale for thee,
     Yet art thou sure—
And though all hopes fail for thee,
     Thou shalt endure!

The ROYAL CHANCELLOR.

What is this thing that men call “Liberty?”                                          [l.xv]
Not force, not tumult, not the wind and rain
And tempest, not the spirit of mere storm,
Not earthquake, not the lightning, not swift Fire,
Not one of these, but mightier far than these,—
The everlasting principle of things,                                                       309
Out of whose silence issue all, the rock
Whereon the mountain and the crater stand,
The adamantine pillars of the earth,
Deep-based beneath the ever-varying air
And under the wild changes of the sea,
The inevitable, the unchangeable,
The secret law, the impulse, and the thought,
Whereby men live and grow.

                                         Then I, this night
As ever, dare with a man’s eyes and soul
Hold by this thing whereof the foolish rave,
And cry, “In God’s name, peace, ye winds and waves,
Ye froths and bubbles on the sea, ye voices
Haunting the fitful region of the air!
God is above ye all, and next to God
The Son and Holy Spirit, and beneath
These twain the great anointed Kings of Earth,
And underneath the Kings the Wise and Good,
And underneath the Wise the merely Strong,
And least of all, clay in the hands of all,                                              310
The base, the miserable, and the weak.
What, then, is this that ye name “Liberty”?
There is evermore a higher. Not like waves
Beating about in a waste sea are men,
But great, small, fair, foul, strong, weak, miserable;—
And Liberty is law creating law
Wherein each corporal member of the world
Filleth his function in the place ordain’d.
Child at the knee, look in thy mother’s face!
Boy-student, reverence the philosopher!
Clown, till the earth, and let the market thrive!
Citizen, doff to beauty and to grace,
To antique fame and holy ancestry!
Nobles, blood purified from running long,
Circle of sanctity, surround the King!
King, stand on the bare height and raise thine eyes,
For there sits God above thee, reverencing
The perfect mirror of the soul of things
Wherein He gazes calmly evermore,                                                  311
And knows Himself divine!

                                     Thus stands for ever
The eternal Order like a goodly tree,
The root of which is deep within the soil.
And lo! the wind and rain are beating on it,
And lightning rends its branches; yet anon
It hangs in gorgeous blossom still-renewed,
And shoots its topmost twig up through the cloud
To touch the changeless stars. Herr Democrat
Comes with his blunt rough axe, and at its root
Strikes shrieking; the earth’s parrots echo him;
Blow follows blow; the air reverberates;
But the Tree stands. Come winds and waves and lightnings,
Come axe-wielders, come ye iconoclasts,
And spend your strength in vain. What! ye would stretch
This goodly tree, this very Iggdrasil,                                                   312
Down to the dusty level of your lives,
Would strew the soil with the fair blooms thereof,
Would tear away the succulent leaves and make
A festal chaplet for Silenus’ hair,
A drunken garland for the Feast of Fools.
See, yonder blow the branches where the great
Tremble like ripen’d fruit; yonder the holy
Gleam in the silvern foliage, sweet and fair;
There, just beneath the cloud, most dim in height,
The flowers of monarchy open their buds
And turn their starry faces upward still.
Strike at the root, my little democrat,
Down with them! Down with the whole goodly tree!
Down even with that fair shoot beyond the cloud,
Down with the unseen bloom of perfect height.
Down with the blossom on the topmost twig,                                     313
Down with the light of God!

                                         I compare further
This Order to a Man, body and brain,
Heart, lungs, eyes, feet to stand on, hands to strike.
The King is to the realm what conscience is
To manhood; the true statesman is the brain;
And under these subsist, greater and less,
The members of the body politic.
Behold now, this alone is majesty:
The incarnate Conscience of the people, fixed
Beyond the body, higher than the brain,
Yet perfect fruit of both,—the higher sense
That flashes back through all the popular frame
The intuitions and the lights divine
Whereby the world is guided under God.
Nor are all Kings ancestral, though these same
Are highest. Yonder in the stormy West
The plain man Lincoln rose to majesty,
Incarnated the conscience and the will                                                 314
Of the strong generation, moved to his end,
Struck, triumph’d in the name of conscience, fell,
And like a sun that sets in bloody light,
In dying darken’d half earth’s continents.

. . . What, art thou there, old Phantom of the Red,
Gambetta? Urge thy legions, for in truth                                             [l.vii]
There is no face in France this day with light
So troublous to the eyes of victory.
O brave one, wert thou France’s will and soul,
Why we might tremble. Let there rise a land,
As strong in conscience and as stern in soul
As we have been to follow a living truth,
And it might slay us even as we have slain
Imperial France and the Republic. Now
Supreme we stand, our symbol being the sword,
Our King the hand that strikes; in that one hand                                   315
I strike, all strike, yea every Teuton strikes.
Reason and conscience knitted in accord
Are deathless, and must overcome the world.
The higher law will shape them. I believe
There is evermore a higher.

[Notes:
Page 300: In the revision of The Drama of Kings entitled ‘Political Mystics’ the two ‘speeches’ by The Royal Chancellor are combined and retitled, ‘The Teuton Monologue. (1870).’ This follows immediately after ‘The Fool of Destiny’.
Alterations in the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
Page 301, l. xviii: The first verse is omitted and ‘The Teuton Monologue’ begins with the second.
Page 302, l. xiii: Totter, and fall: strewn with the wreck’d and dead,
Page 302, l. xvi: Tide of the Teuton, is it wonderful
Page 304, l. vi: Whose turn comes next? . . .
The next eight lines are omitted and resume with Page 304, l. xv.
Page 306: The Chorus is omitted and ‘The Teuton Monologue’ resumes with Page 308, l. xv.
Page 314, l. vii: Urge on thy dreadful legions, for in truth ]

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The Drama of Kings continued

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