The Two Twilights Part 6

ON GUARD

_O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop_ _To help me after.--Romeo and Juliet._

He has chosen the death that is easy And left me the life that is hard.

He has emptied the cup to the lees, he Has left me alone to keep guard.

Remains not a drop in the beaker Of the bitter-sweet cordial he quaffed: The strong has forsaken his weaker And stolen his anodyne draught.

The cause that he taught me to cherish, The weapons he trained me to wield, He has given it over to perish And thrown down the sword and the s.h.i.+eld.

O how shall the coward persever When the hero slinks out of the fight; Or weakness keep up the endeavor Abandoned by desperate might?

The hour of stern trial has found me: The sentinel fires are burnt low, And I hear in the shadows around me The stealthy approach of the foe.

Be it so then, my master, my leader: These helpless ones, dear to you, these Will I fend while I may, though I bleed, or Am beaten with blows to my knees.

Lo here, where your body lies fallen, I draw from its scabbard the sword And raise it--how feebly!--and call on Your spirit, my captain, my lord.

The watch-fire is sunken to embers, With signals the darkness is starred.

Let them come! There is one who remembers-- There is one who will stand upon guard.

SURSUM CORDA

Take courage, heart. Why dost thou faint and falter?

Why is thy light turned darkness ere the noon?

The wind blows west, no clouds the heaven alter, Night comes not yet; with night, too, comes the moon.

"Alas, alas! the dewy morwing weather, The tender light that on the meadows lay, When Youth and Hope and I set out together,-- Light Youth, false Hope, that left me on the way!"

Take courage yet; thou are not unattended: See Love and Peace keep step on either hand.

How green the vales! The sky how blue! How splendid The strong white suns.h.i.+ne sleeps across the land!

"Alas the thrushes' song hath long had ending I heard at dawn among the pine woods cool.

The brook is still, whose rocky stair descending, I drank at sunrise from each rosy pool."

The noon is still; the songs of dawn are over; Yet turn not back to prove thy memories vain.

The mist upon the hills canst thou recover, Or bring to eastern skies the bloom again?

But courage still! Without return or swerving, Across the globe's huge shadow keep the track, Till, unperceived, the slow meridian's curving, That leads thee onward, yet shall lead thee back,

To stand again with daybreak on the mountains, And, where the paths of night and morning meet, To drink once more of youth's forgotten fountains, When thou hast put the world between thy feet.

LOVE, DEATH AND LIFE

The warm wind comes in rushes, The night is thick and sweet: I cannot see the bushes-- The tall syringa bushes Above the gate that meet, Whose fallen blooms she crushes Under her heedless feet; But their heavy, rich perfume Is round us in the gloom Which lends its friendly cover To bashful maid and lover: Which cheats me of her blushes But makes her kiss complete.

'Way down the village street A lantern swings and dances In front of the old church porch, And throws its telltale glances On the puddles and the plashes, And flares in the wind like a torch, And scatters sudden flashes On the elm leaves overhead.

But you need have no dread Of that harmless, far-off spark; For the night is thick and dark, O the dark is thick and sweet!

So, closer: let the beat Of your heart encounter mine.

(How you tremble--like a leaf!) O you do not need to fear Any shame or any grief While my arms around you twine And the night wind pours its wine.

Come nearer, still more near; Press closer, closer yet.

Your cheeks are warm and wet, Like this wind from out the south, And warm and wet your mouth; And yon lantern won't discover The maiden and her lover.

'Tis only the s.e.xton, nothing more-- There was a funeral to-day-- The s.e.xton locking the church door, Locking it up and going away.

Why should it fall on a day like this?

What has death to do in a world of bliss?

O pa.s.sionate black night!

O rush of the southern breeze, Laden with blossoms and rain, a.s.serter of life and its right, Cherisher, breeder of things, Swelling the sap in the trees, Swelling the blood in the vein, Filling the rivers and springs: Whisper the girl at my side, Quicken her pulse with thy breath, Teach her the way of a bride, Teach her to take and to give.

What hast thou to do with us, Death?

By G.o.d, we live!

THE DYING PANTHEIST TO THE PRIEST

Take your ivory Christ away: No dying G.o.d shall have my knee, While live G.o.ds breathe in this wild wind And shout from yonder das.h.i.+ng sea.

When March brings back the Adonis flower No more the white processions meet, With incense to the risen lord, About the pillared temple's feet.

From tusk of boar, from thrust of spear The dead rise not. At Eastertide The same sun dances on their graves-- Love's darling and the Crucified.

Yet still the year's returning tide Flows greenly round each ruined plinth, Breaking on fallen shafts in foam Of crocus and of hyacinth:

Tossing a spray of swallows high, To flutter lightly on the breeze And fleck with tiny spots of shade The suns.h.i.+ne on the broken frieze.

I know the gray-green asphodels Still sheet the dim Elysian mead, And ever by dark Lethe's wells The poppy sheds her ghostly seed.

And once--O once!--when sunset lay Blood red across the winter sea, Where on the sands we drained our flasks And danced and cried our _Evoe_!

Among the tossing cakes of ice And spouting of the frozen spray, We saw their white limbs twist and whirl-- The ancient sea-G.o.ds at their play.

The gold-brown liquor burned my heart, The icy tempest stung my brow: The tw.a.n.ging of Apollo's lyre-- I heard it as I hear it now.

O no, the old G.o.ds are not dead: I think that they will never die; But, I, who lie upon this bed In mortal anguish--what am I?

A wave that rises with a breath Above the infinite watery plain, To foam and sparkle in the sun A moment ere it sink again.

The eternal undulation runs: A man, I die: perchance to be, Next life, a white-throat on the wind, A daffodil on Tempe's lea.

They lied who said that Pan was dead: Life was, life is, and life shall be.