The Lord of Misrule, and Other Poems Part 12

_Farewell!_ The soft mists of the sunset-sky Slowly enfold his fading birch-canoe!

_Farewell!_ His dark, his desolate forests cry, Moved to their vast, their sorrowful depths anew.

Fading! Nay, lifted thro' a heaven of light, His proud sails brightening thro' that crimson flame, Leaving us lonely on the sh.o.r.es of night, Home to Ponemah take his deathless fame.

Generous as a child, so wholly free From all base pride that fools forgot his crown, He adored Beauty, in pure ecstasy, And waived the mere rewards of his renown.

The spark that falls from heaven not oft on earth To human hearts this vital splendour gives; His was the simple, true, immortal birth.

Scholars compose; but--_this man's music lives_!

Greater than England or than Earth discerned, He never paltered with his art for gain: When many a vaunted crown to dust is turned, This uncrowned king shall take his throne and reign.

Nations unborn shall hear his forests moan; Ages unscanned shall hear his winds lament, Hear the strange grief that deepened through his own The vast cry of a buried continent.

Through him, his race a moment lifted up Forests of hands to Beauty as in prayer; Touched through his lips the sacramental Cup, And then sank back--benumbed in our bleak air.

Through him, through him, a lost world hailed the light!

The tragedy of that triumph none can tell,-- So great, so brief, so quickly s.n.a.t.c.hed from sight; And yet--O hail, great comrade, not farewell!

INSCRIPTION

(_For the Grave of Coleridge-Taylor_)

Sleep, crowned with fame; fearless of change or time.

Sleep, like remembered music in the soul, Silent, immortal; while our discords climb To that great chord which shall resolve the whole.

Silent with Mozart on that solemn sh.o.r.e; Secure where neither waves nor hearts can break; Sleep--till the Master of the World, once more, Touch the remembered strings, and bid thee wake....

Touch the remembered strings, and bid thee wake.

VALUES

The moon that sways the rhythmic seas, The wheeling earth, the marching sky,-- I ask not whence the order came That moves them all as one.

These are your chariots. Nor shall these Appal me with immensity; I know they carry one heart of flame More precious than the sun.

THE HEROIC DEAD

(_On the loss of the t.i.tanic_)

If in the noon they doubted, in the night They never swerved. Death had no power to appal.

There was one Way, one Truth, one Life, one Light, One Love that shone triumphant over all.

If in the noon they doubted, at the last There was no Way to part, no Way but One That rolled the waves of Nature back and cast In ancient days a shadow across the sun.

If in the noon they doubted, their last breath Saluted once again the eternal goal, Chanted a love-song in the face of Death And rent the veil of darkness from the soul.

If in the noon they doubted, in the night They waved the shadowy world of strife aside, Flooded high heaven with an immortal light, And taught the deep how its Creator died.

THE CRY IN THE NIGHT

It tears at the heart in the night, that moan of the wind, That desolate moan.

It is worse than the cry of a child. I can hardly bear To hear it, alone.

It is worse than the sobbing of love, when love is estranged: For this is a cry Out of the desolate ages. It never has changed.

It never can die.

A cry over numberless graves, dark, helpless and blind, From the measureless past, To the measureless future, a sobbing before the first laughter, And after the last!

From the height of creation, in pa.s.sion eternal, the Word Rushes forth, the loud cry, _Forsaken! Forsaken!_ It cuts through the night like a sword!

Shall it win no reply?

Not of earth is that height of all sorrow, past time, out of s.p.a.ce, Therefore here, here and now, Universal, a Calvary, crowned with Thy pa.s.sionate face, Thy thorn-wounded brow.

Ah, could I shrink if Thy heart for each heart upon earth Must break like a sea?

Could I hear, could I bear it at all, if I were not a part Of this labour in Thee?

Shall I accuse Thee, then? G.o.d, I account it my own All the grief I can bear, On Thy Cross of Creation, to balance earth's bliss and atone, Atone for life there.

If this be the One Way for ever, which not Thine all-might Could change, if it would, Till the truth be untrue, till the dark be the same as the light, And till evil be good,

Shall I who took part in Thine April, shrink now from my part In Thine anguish to be?

If Thy goal be the One goal of all, shall not even man's heart Endure this, with Thee;

Die with Thee, balancing life, or help Thee to pay For our hope with our pain?...

_O, the voice of the wind in the night! Is it day, then, broad day, On the blind earth again?_

ASTRID