ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{The New Rome 1898}

                                                                                                                                                                   322

THE STORMY ONES.

WHAT bark is this by the breezes driven,
     With scarce a rag of remaining sail?—
Under the gentle eyes of Heaven
     It drifteth, crowded with faces pale.

Who’s at the helm with his hair back-blowing,
     (And very badly he seems to steer!)
Loosely his raven locks are flowing,—
     The shade of BYRON, by all that’s queer!

Close beside him a blushing bevy
     Of women on tiger skins repose,—
Their cheeks are waxen, their eyes are heavy,
     They wear loose trousers, and yawn and doze!

Daintily drest but sea-sick slightly,
     Leans Chateaubriand over the rail,
Watch’d by an Indian maid politely,
     A sort of Choctaw Madame de Stael.

There’s Grillparzer, with scowl and swagger,
     Kotzebue also, with paper and pen,
Werner, with poison’d bowl and dagger,
     All the stormy women and men!

Atala, Charlotte, Medora, Haidee,                                                      323
     Mrs. Haller, may be descried,
Fair of feature, in morals shady,
     Caressed and wheedled,—then kick’d aside!

Down below in the cabin, thickly
     Gather the revellers, weak of will—
Alfred de Musset with smile so sickly,
     Heine with laughter wild and shrill.

Women, too!—actress, cocotte, and gipsy,
     Mimi Pinson, and all the rest,
Each bareheaded, with eyeballs tipsy,
     Leaning there on a reveller’s breast.

Poof! how close it is below here!
     Best again to the deck repair—
At least a breath from Heaven may blow here,
     But down in the cabin, one chokes for air!

Byron swears as he grasps the tiller,
     Haidee sobs as she bites her bun,
And the little stowaway, Joaquin Miller,
     Gapes at a symbol and cries “What fun!”

For up at the peak their flag is flying—
     A white Death’s head, with grinning teeth,—
“Eat, drink, and love, for the day is dying,”
     Written in cypher underneath.

“Vanity! Vanity! Love and Revel!”                                                      324
     “Take a sip of absinthe, my dear!”
“Religion’s a bore, but I like the Devil!”
     These are some of the words you hear! . . .

Over the vessel so small and crowded,
     Walking the winds with solemn tread,
Two Shapes are hanging, their faces shrouded,—
     They talk as they hearken overhead.

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

     Why rocks this ship upon the main
         When all the waves repose?

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

     The breeze is only in the brain,
         And so they think it blows!

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

     But all is calm—’tis summer time—
         Soft sighs the silken swell!

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

     Still, you and I dream’d ere our prime
         Our Teacup Storms as well!

Still as glass is the ocean weather,
     All is quiet and still and warm,
Yet see! the Stormy Ones crowd together,
     Baring their foreheads to front the Storm!

“Thunder and lightning, we defy you!                                                   325
     Fate, we scorn thee!” loud they cry—
“Blow your loudest, O wind on high! You
     Can only make us blaspheme and die!”

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

     Methinks the song they sing is stale,
         So oft it hath been sung!

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

     That very vessel thro’ a gale
         I steered, when I was young!

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

     Why do they rave of tempests thus?
         The weather’s wondrous fair!

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

     Herr God! ’tis too ridiculous—
         There’s not a breath of air!

Spirits tremendous, you’re right precisely!
     The song of the Stormy is quite absurd—
There’s just a breeze to sail with nicely,
     The waves are gentle to boat and bird.

Yonder Liberty’s Ark is floating,
     And there’s the Dove, with the branch in his beak—
Even the Pope on the brine is boating,
     Safe in his tub, in spite of the leak!

Go by, O Stormy Ones, dreaming wildly                                              326
     You breast the waves with heroic mind—
On your brows may the breeze blow mildly,
     When you’re sea-sick, may Fate be kind!

But O ye Women, black-eyed and blue-eyed
     Who listen still to the old stale song,
Ye victims of mock heroics! true-eyed,
     Credulous, innocent, spite of wrong!

Yours is the sorrow, theirs the pleasure,—
     Yours are the tears, and theirs the laugh,—
The cowards sip the froth of the measure,
     But give you the poisonous dregs to quaff!

Lords of misrule and of melancholy,
     They share among you their devil’s dole,
While on the decks of that Ship of Folly
     You faint and sicken, O Woman-Soul!

[Note:
An earlier version of this poem was published in the February 1874 edition of The Saint Pauls Magazine under the title, ‘The Ship of Folly’ (and was also reprinted in The New York Times on 1st March, 1874):

THE SHIP OF FOLLY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “WHITE ROSE AND RED.”
_____

WHAT Bark is this by the soft winds driven,
     With scarce a rag of remaining sail?
Under the gentle eyes of Heaven
     It drifteth, crowded with faces pale!

Who’s at the helm with his hair back blowing,
     (And very badly he seems to steer!)
Loosely his raven locks are flowing—
     The shade of BYRON, by all that’s queer!

Close beside him a blushing bevy
     Of women on tiger-skins repose:
Their cheeks are waxen, their eyes are heavy,
     They wear loose trousers, and yawn, and doze.

Daintily drest, but sea-sick slightly,
     Leans Chateaubriand over the rail,
Watch’d by an Indian maid politely—
     A sort of Choctaw Madame de Staël!

There’s Grillparzer, with scowl and swagger;
     Kotzebue, too, with prolific pen;
Werner with poison’d bowl and dagger;—
     All the stormy women and men!

Atala, Charlotte, Medora, Haïdée,
     Mrs. Haller, may be descried—
Fair of feature, in morals shady,
     Caress’d and wheedled—and kick’d aside!

Underneath, in the cabin, thickly
     Gather the Revellers, wild of will—
Alfred de Musset with smile so sickly,
     Heine, with laughter so thin and shrill.

Women, too! actress, cocotte, and gipsy,
     Mimi Pinson, and all the rest—
Each bareheaded, with eyeballs tipsy,
     Leaning there on a reveller’s breast!

Poof! how close it is below there—
     Best again to the deck repair;
At least a breath from heaven may blow there;
     But, down in the cabin, one chokes for air.

Byron smiles as he grasps the tiller,
     Haïdée sobs as she bites her bun,
And the little “stowaway,” Joaquin Miller,
     Gapes at a symbol, and cries “What fun!”

For up the mast their flag is flying—
     A white Death’s-head, with grinning teeth—
“Eat, drink, and love—for the day is dying,”
     Written in cipher underneath.

“Vanity! vanity! love and Revel!”
     “Take a sip of absinthe, my dear!”
“Religion’s a bore, but I like the Devil!”
     These are some of the words we hear.

O’er the vessel, so small and crowded,
     Walking the wind with solemn tread,
Two Spirits hang, their faces shrouded,
     And talk, as they linger overhead.

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

     Why rocks this ship upon the main,
         When all the waves repose?

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

     They feel a breeze within the brain,
         And so they think it blows.

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

     But all is sweet—’tis summer time—
         Soft sighs the silken swell.

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

     Still, thou and I dream’d, ere our prime,
         Our tea-cup storms as well!

Still as glass is the ocean weather,
     All is quiet, and still, and warm,—
Yet see! the Stormy Ones crowd together,
     Baring their brows as in times of storm!

“Thunder and lightning, we defy you!”
     “Fate, we scorn thee!” loud they cry;
“Blow your loudest, O wind, on high! you
     Can only make us blaspheme and die!”

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

     Methinks this bitter song is stale—
         So oft it hath been sung.

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

     That very vessel thro’ a gale
         I steer’d, when I was young.

SPIRIT OF ROUSSEAU.

     Most of the crew are ghosts, like us,
         To one proud gesture pinned.

SPIRIT OF GOETHE.

     Herr Gott! ’tis too ridiculous!—
         There’s not a breath of wind.

Spirits tremendous, you’re right precisely!
     The song of the Stormy is quite absurd;
There’s just a breeze to sail with nicely,
     The waves are gentle to boat and bird.

Yonder, Liberty’s Ark is floating,
     There’s the Dove with the branch in his beak!
Even the Pope on the brine is boating,
     Safe, in his Tub, in despite of the leak.

Go by, O Stormy Ones, dreaming wildly
     You breast the Storm with heroic mind,
On your brows may the breeze blow mildly;
     When you’re sea-sick, may Fate be kind.

But, O ye Women, black-eyed and blue-eyed,
     Who listen still to the old stale song;
Ye victims of mock-heroics; true-eyed,
     Credulous, innocent, spite of wrong.

Yours is the sorrow, theirs the pleasure—
     Yours is the tears, and theirs the laugh;
The cowards sip the froth of the measure,
     But give you the poisonous dregs to quaff.

Lords of mischief and melancholy,
     Wait till the real storms rise and roll;
But leave the decks of that Ship of Folly,
     For terra firma, O Woman-Soul!                                                ]

                                                                                                                                                                   327

THE DISMAL THRONG.

THE Fairy Tale of Life is done,
     The horns of Fairyland cease blowing,
The Gods have left us one by one,
     And the last Poets, too, are going!
Ended is all the mirth and song,
     Fled are the merry Music-makers;
And what remains? The Dismal Throng
     Of literary Undertakers!

Clad in deep black of funeral cut,
     With faces of forlorn expression,
Their eyes half open, souls close shut,
     They stalk along in pale procession;
The latest seed of Schopenhauer,
     Born of a Trull of Flaubert’s choosing,
They cry, while on the ground they glower,
     “There’s nothing in the world amusing!”

There’s Zola, grimy as his theme,
     Nosing the sewers with cynic pleasure,
Sceptic of all that poets dream,
     All hopes that simple mortals treasure;
With sense most keen for odours strong,
     He stirs the Drains and scents disaster,
Grim monarch of the Dismal Throng
     Who bow their heads before “the Master.”

There’s Miss Matilda in the south,                                                       328
     There’s Valdes in Madrid and Seville,
There’s mad Verlaine with gangrened mouth
     Grinning at Rimbaud and the Devil.
From every nation of the earth,
     Instead of smiling music-makers,
They come, the foes of Love and Mirth,
     The Dismal Throng of Undertakers.

There’s Tolstoi, towering in his place
     O’er all the rest by head and shoulders;
No sunshine on that noble face
     Which Nature meant to charm beholders!
Mad with his self-made martyr’s shirt,
     Obscene through hatred of obsceneness,
He from a pulpit built of Dirt
     Shrieks his Apocalypse of Cleanness!

There’s Ibsen, puckering up his lips,
     Squirming at Nature and Society,
Drawing with tingling finger-tips
     The clothes off naked Impropriety!
So nice, so nasty, and so grim,
     He hugs his gloomy bottled thunder;
To summon up one smile from him
     Would be a miracle of wonder!

There’s Maupassant, who takes his cue
     From Dame Bovary’s bourgeois troubles;
There’s Bourget, dyed his own sick “blue,”                                         329
     There’s Loti, blowing blue soap-bubbles;
There’s Mendès (no Catullus, he!)
     There’s Richepin, sick with sensual passion.
The Dismal Throng! So foul, so free,
     Yet sombre all, as is the fashion.

“Turn down the lights! put out the Sun!
     Man is unclean and morals muddy,
The Fairy Tale of Life is done,
     Disease and Dirt must be our study!
Tear open Nature’s genial heart,
     Let neither God nor gods escape us,
But spare, to give our subjects zest,
     The basest god of all—Priapus!”

The Dismal Throng! ’Tis thus they preach,
     From Christiania to Cadiz,
Recruited as they talk and teach
     By dingy lads and draggled ladies;
Without a sunbeam or a song,
     With no clear Heaven to hunger after;
The Dismal Throng! the Dismal Throng!
     The foes of Life and Love and Laughter!

By Shakespeare’s Soul! if this goes on,
     From every face of man and woman
The gift of gladness will be gone,
     And laughter will be thought inhuman!
The only beast who smiles is Man!                                                      330
     That marks him out from meaner creatures!
Confound the Dismal Throng, who plan
     To take God’s birth-mark from our features!

Manfreds who walk the hospitals,
     Laras and Giaours grown scientific,
They wear the clothes and bear the palls
     Of Stormy Ones once thought terrific;
They play the same old funeral tune,
     And posture with the same dejection,
But turn from howling at the moon
     To literary vivisection!

And while they loom before our view,
     Dark’ning the air that should be sunny,
Here’s Oscar, growing dismal too,
     Our Oscar, who was once so funny!
Blue china ceases to delight
     The dear curl’d darling of society,
Changed are his breeches, once so bright,
     For foreign breaches of propriety!

I grant there’s many a sorry place
     On Earth, and much in need of mending,
But all the world is not so base
     As sickly souls are now contending;
And I prefer my roses still
     To all the garlic in their garden—
Let Hedda gabble as she will,
     I’ll stay with Rosalind, in Arden!

O for one laugh of Rabelais,                                                               331
     To rout these moralising croakers!
(The cowls were mightier far than they,
     Yet fled before that King of Jokers).
O for a slash of Fielding’s pen
     To bleed these pimps of Melancholy!
O for a Boz, born once again
     To play the Dickens with such folly!

Yet stay! why bid the dead arise?
     Why call them back from Charon’s wherry?
Come, Yankee Mark, with twinkling eyes,
     Confuse these ghouls with something merry!
Come, Kipling, with thy soldiers three,
     Thy barrack-ladies frail and fervent,
Forsake thy themes of butchery
     And be the merry Muses’ servant!

Come, Dickens’ foster-son, Bret Harte!
     (Before he died, he bless’d thy labours!)
Tom Hardy, blow the clouds apart
     With sound of rustic fifes and tabors!
Dick Blackmore, full of homely joy,
     Come from thy garden by the river,
And pelt with fruit and flowers, old boy,
     These dreary bores who drone for ever!

By Heaven! we want you one and all,
     For Hypochondria is reigning—
The Mater Dolorosa’s squall
     Makes Nature hideous with complaining.
Ah! who will paint the Face that smiled                                                332
     When Art was virginal and vernal—
The pure Madonna with her Child,
     Pure as the light, and as eternal!

Pest on these dreary, dolent airs!
     Confound these funeral pomps and poses!
Is Life Dyspepsia’s and Despair’s,
     And Love’s complexion all chlorosis?
A lie! There’s Health, and Mirth, and Song,
     The World still laughs, and goes a-Maying—
The dismal droning doleful Throng
     Are only smuts in sunshine playing!

Play up, ye horns of Fairyland!
     Shine out, O Sun, and planets seven!
Beyond these clouds a beckoning Hand
     Gleams from the lattices of Heaven!
The World’s alive—still quick, not dead,
     It needs no Undertaker’s warning;
So put the Dismal Throng to bed,
     And wake once more to Light and Morning!

[Note:
An earlier version of ‘The Dismal Throng’, illustrated by George Hutchinson and with an explanatory note by Buchanan, was published in the July 1893 edition of Jerome K. Jerome’s magazine, The Idler. This can be accessed below.]

The [illustrated] Dismal Throng

                                                                                                                                                                 333

THE GIFT OF BURNS.

Addressed to the Caledonian Club, Boston, U.S.A., on the
Anniversary of the Birth of the Poet.

I.

THE speech our English Pilgrims spoke
     Fills the great plains afar,
And branches of the British oak
     Wave ’neath the Western star;
“Be free!” men cried, in Shakespeare’s tongue,
     When striking for the Slave—
Thus Hampden’s cry for Freedom rung
     As far as Lincoln’s grave!

II.

But where new oaks of England rise
     The thistle freelier blows;
Across the seas ’neath alien skies
     Another Scotland grows;
Here Independence, mountain Maid
     Reaps her full birthright now,
And BURNS’S shade, in trews and plaid,
     Still whistles at the plough!

                                                                                                         334

III.

Scots, gather’d now in phalanx bright,
     Here in this distant land,
To greet you all, this festal night,
     I reach the loving hand;
My soul is with you one and all,
     Who pledge our Poet’s fame,
And echoing your toast, I call
     A blessing on his name!

IV.

The heritage he left behind
     Has spread from sea to sea—
The liberal heart, the fearless mind,
     The undaunted Soul and free;
The radiant humour that redeem’d
     A world of commonplace;
The wit that like a sword-flash gleam’d
     In Fashion’s painted face;

V.

The brotherhood whose smiles and tears,
     Too deep for thought to scan,
Have made of all us Mountaineers
     One world-compelling clan!
Hand join with hand! Soul links with soul
     Where’er we sit and sing,
Flashing, from utmost pole to pole,
     Love’s bright electric ring!

                                                                                                         335

VI.

The songs he sang were sown as seeds
     Deep in the furrow’d earth—
They blossom into dauntless deeds
     And flowers of gentle mirth;
They brighten every path we tread,
     They conquer Time and place;
While blue skies, opening overhead,
     Reveal—the Singer’s face!

VII.

God bless him! Tho’ he sin’d and fell,
     His sins are all forgiven,
Since with his wit he conquer’d Hell,
     And with his love show’d Heaven!
He was the noblest of us all,
     Yet of us all a part,
For every Scot, howe’er so small,
     Is high as BURNS’S heart!

VIII.

All honour’d be the night indeed
     When he this life began—
The open-handed, stubborn-knee’d
     Type of the mountain clan!
The shape erect that never knelt
     To Kings of earth or air,
But at a maiden’s touch would melt
     And tremble into prayer!

                                                                                                         336

IX.

His soul pursues us where we roam,
     Beyond the furthest waves,
He sheds the light of Love and Home
     Upon our loneliest graves!
Poor is the slave that honours not
     The flag he first unfurl’d—
Our Singer, who has made the Scot
     The Freeman of the World!

                                                                                                         337

THE ROBIN REDBREAST.

(FOR ROBERT BURNS’S BIRTHDAY, 25TH JANUARY.)

WHEN cold and frosted lies the plough
     And never a flower upsprings,
How blithely on the wintry bough
     The Robin sits and sings!

His bright black eye with restless ray
     Glints at the snow-clad earth;
Chill blow the winds, and yet his lay
     Is bright with Love and Mirth! . . .

E’en so, my Robin, didst thou come
     Into our wintry clime,
And when the summer bards were dumb
     Piped out thy perfect rhyme;

Clouds parted, and the sun shone through!
     Men welcomed, smiling bright,
The Friend of Man, the Minstrel true
     Of Love, and Life, and Light!

Poor outcast Adam ceased to grieve,
     And answer’d with a will:
’Twas Eden once again, and Eve
     Was mother-naked still!

And ever by the Cotter’s door,                                                           338
     Thy notes rang clear and free,
And Freedom fill’d the soul once more
     That hearken’d unto thee!

The crimson stain was on thy breast,
     The bleeding heart below,
But bravely thou didst pipe thy best
     Despite the whole world’s woe!

Blest be that strain of Love and Mirth,
     So fearless and so fine! . . .
What were this waste of wintry earth
     Without such cheer as thine!

                                                                                                         339

TO GEORGE BERNARD SHAW.

NO Slave at least art thou, on this dull Day
     When slaves and knaves throng in Life’s banquet-hall! . . .
Who listens to thy scornful laugh must say
     “Wormwood, tho’ bitter, is medicinal!”

Because thou turnest from our Feast of Lies
     Where prosperous priests with whores and warriors feed,
Because thy Jester’s mask hides loving eyes,
     I name thee here, and bid thy work “God speed!”

                                                                                                         340

THE SAD SHEPHERD.

(TO THOMAS HARDY.)

THY song is piteous now that once was glad,
     The merry uplands hear thy voice no more—
Thro’ frozen forest-ways, O Shepherd sad,
     Thou wanderest, while windy tempests roar;

And in thine arms—aye me!—thou claspest tight
     A wounded Lamb that bleateth in the cold,
Warming it in thy breast, while thro’ the night
     Thou strugglest, fain to bear it to the fold!

Shepherd, God bless thy task, and keep thee strong
     To help poor lambs that else might die astray! . . .
Thy midnight cry is holier than the song
     The summer uplands heard at dawn of day!

                                                                                                         341

L'ENVOI IN THE LIBRARY.

AND if, O Brethren of the Bleeding Heart,
     Dreamers amid the Storm where Love gropes blind,
I have cried aloud for Joy to tear apart
     The cloud of Fate that broods o’er Humankind;

If ’mid the darkness I have call’d, “Rejoice!
     God’s in his Heaven—the skies are blue and fair!”
If for a moment’s space my faltering voice
     Hath echoed here the infant’s cry and prayer;

’Tis that the pang of pity grew too great,
     Too absolute the quick sharp sense of pain,
And in my soul’s despair, left desolate,
     I sought to be a little child again!

Not that I love your piteous labours less,
     But that I yearn for Life and Sunshine more,—
Hearing, ’mid Seas and Storms so pitiless,
     The happy children shouting on the shore!

                                                                                                         343

CORUISKEN SONNETS.

[LOCH CORUISK, ISLE OF SKYE, N.B.]

                                                                                                                                 345

CORUISKEN SONNETS. *

(Loch Coruisk, Isle of Skye, N.B.)

I.

AGAIN among the Mountains, and again
That same old question on my faltering tongue!
Purged if not purified by fires of pain,
I seek the Solitudes I loved when young;
And lo, the prayers I prayed, the songs I sung,
Echo like elfin music in my brain,
While to these lonely regions of the Rain
I come, a Pilgrim worn and serpent-stung.
The bitter wormwood of the creeds hath pass’d
To poison in my blood of dull despair,
I have torn the mask from Death and stood aghast
To find the Phantom’s features foul not fair,—
I have read the Riddle of the Gods at last
With broken heart, and found no comfort there!

* See the author’s Book of Orm.

II.

Unchanged, CORUISK, thou liest!—Time hath made
No mark on thee his empery to attest;
Winter and summer, light and solemn shade,
Break not the eternal darkness of thy breast,
Black Lake of Sorrow, stillest, wofullest
Of all God’s Waters,—countless storms have played
O’er thee and round, since on thy shores I prayed                              346
And left thee here untroubled in thy rest . . .
And o’er thee still the sunless Peaks arise
Finding no mirror in thy depths below,
And night by night Heaven with its million eyes
Hath watch’d thy lava-pools of silent woe,—
The same thou art, under the same sad Skies,
As when God’s Hand first stilled thee, long ago!

III.

Tho’ Time which leaves thee whole hath rent and worn
The soul of him who stood and worshipt here,
The weary Waters and the Hills forlorn
Remain the same from silent year to year;—
Despite the sad unrest afar and near,
The cry of Torrents that for ever mourn,
The march of Clouds by winds and lightnings torn,
Here dwells no heritage of human fear!
God keeps His scourge for slaves that pray and cling,
For Clouds and Mists and mortals frail as they,—
The Mountains heed Him not, the Waters fling
His strong Hand back and wave His pride away:
Serene and silent they confront the Thing
Which chills the flesh and blood of men of clay!

IV.

Now hearken!—Led, methought, by God’s own Hand,
I wander’d in a world of gracious things,
Heaven was above, all round was Fairyland,
Music of singing brooks and crystal springs,—
Each flower that blossoms and each bird that sings                               347
Promised the Paradise which Love had planned,
Spake of the spirits who at his command
Bare peace from star to star on happy wings.
I heard the Promise wheresoe’er I went,
I saw it rainbow’d yonder in the Sky,
Yea, even when the Heavens were lightning-rent,
I saw the radiant hosts go shining by,—
I look’d and listen’d, calm and well-content,
And little guess’d that Promise was a Lie!

V.

How could I doubt the lark and nightingale
Singing their chaunt of Joy and Love Divine?
How could I dream that golden Light could fail
Which lit the whole green world with bliss like mine?
Where’er I walked I saw the Promise shine
Soft as the dawn-star o’er a leafy dale,
And raising happy hands I cried, “All hail!
Father of All, since Life and Light are Thine!”
Nay, even when utter darkness wrapt me round
And bending low I saw pale Death creep near,
Methought I saw an Angel Heavenward-bound
Laden with flowers that bloom’d and faded here,
While far away I heard a happy sound
And saw the Mirage flash from sphere to sphere!

VI.

The Mirage! ah, the Mirage! O how fair
And wonderful it seem’d, flash’d overhead
From world to world! Bright faces glimmer’d there,                             348
Hands beckon’d, and my grief was comforted!
Wherefore, O God, I did not fear to tread
That darkness, and to breathe that deadly air,
For there was comfort yet in my despair,
And since God lived, I was not wholly dead!
Then came the crowning grief, the final fear
That snapt my heart in twain, Unpitying One!
The Hand was drawn away, the path grew drear,
The Mirage faded, and the Dream was done;
And lo, the Heaven that once had seem’d so near
Had fled, to shine no more in moon or sun!

VII.

I charge thee now, O God, if God indeed
Thou art, and not an evil empty Dream!
Now when the Earth is strong and quick with seed,
Redeem thy promise! with thy life supreme
Fill those dear eyes, till they unclose and beam!
Think how my heart hath bled and still doth bleed
Beneath thy wrath, and listen while I plead
In darkness,—send thy Light, a living stream,
Into the grave where all I love lies low! . . .
Spring comes again, thy world awakeneth,
May-time is near, the buds begin to blow,
Over all Nature flows a living breath,—
The Hills are loosen’d and the Waters flow,—
Melt then, O God, those icicles of DEATH!

VIII.

Thou wilt not melt them! Never in sun or rain
The gentle heart shall stir, the dear eyes shine!
Silent Thou passest, pitiless, Divine,                                                   349
Trailing behind Thy footsteps Life’s long chain,
Which breaketh link by link with ceaseless pain,
Breaketh and faileth like this life of mine,
And yet is evermore renew’d again
To prove all Time’s Eternity is Thine!
Wherefore my soul no more shall pray and cling
To Thee, O God, for succour or for stay;—
The Mountains heed Thee not,—the Waters fling
Thy strong Hand back and wave Thy pride away:—
Serene and cold like those, I front the Thing
Which chills the flesh and blood of men of clay.

[Note:
The Book of Orm (1870) contains the original ‘Coruisken Sonnets’ and is available on this site.]

_____

The New Rome continued

or back to The New Rome - Contents