AE in the Irish Theosophist Part 8

Unto the poor dead shadows came Wisdom mantled about with flame; We had eyes that could see the light Born of the mystic Father's might.

Glory radiant with powers untold And the breath of G.o.d around it rolled.

Life that moved in the deeps below Felt the fire in its bosom glow; Life awoke with the Light allied, Grew divinely stirred, and cried: "This is the Ancient of Days within, Light that is ere our days begin.

"Every power in the spirit's ken Springs anew in our lives again.

We had but dreams of the heart's desire Beauty thrilled with the mystic fire.

The white-fire breath whence springs the power Flows alone in the spirit's hour."

Man arose the earth he trod, Grew divine as he gazed on G.o.d: Light in a fiery whirlwind broke Out of the dark divine and spoke: Man went forth through the vast to tread By the spirit of wisdom charioted.

There came the learned of the schools Who measure heavenly things by rules, The sceptic, doubter, the logician, Who in all sacred things precision, Would mark the limit, fix the scope, "Art thou the Christ for whom we hope?

Art thou a magian, or in thee Has the divine eye power to see?"

He answered low to those who came, "Not this, nor this, nor this I claim.

More than the yearning of the heart I have no wisdom to impart.

I am the voice that cries in him Whose heart is dead, whose eyes are dim, 'Make pure the paths where through may run The light-streams from that golden one, The Self who lives within the sun.'

As spake the seer of ancient days."

The voices from the earthly ways Questioned him still: "What dost thou here, If neither prophet, king nor seer?

What power is kindled by they might?"

"I flow before the feet of Light: I am the purifying stream.

But One of whom ye have no dream, Whose footsteps move among you still, Though dark, divine, invisible.

Impelled by Him, before His ways I journey, though I dare not raise Even from the ground these eyes so dim Or look upon the feet of Him."

When the dead or dreamy hours Like a mantle fall away, Wakes the eye of gnostic powers To the light of hidden day,

And the yearning heart within Seeks the true, the only friend, He who burdened with our sin Loves and loves unto the end.

Ah, the martyr of the world, With a face of steadfast peace Round whose brow the light is curled: 'Tis the Lamb with golden fleece.

So they called of old the s.h.i.+ning, Such a face the sons of men See, and all its life divining Wake primeval fires again.

Such a face and such a glory Pa.s.sed before the eyes of John, With a breath of olden story Blown from ages long agone

Who would know the G.o.d in man.

Deeper still must be his glance.

Veil on veil his eye must scan For the mystic signs which tell If the fire electric fell On the seer in his trance: As his way he upward wings From all time-encircled things, Flames the glory round his head Like a bird with wings outspread.

Gold and silver plumes at rest: Such a shadowy s.h.i.+ning crest Round the hero's head reveals him To the soul that would adore, As the master-power that heals him And the fount of secret lore.

Nature such a diadem Places on her royal line, Every eye that looks on them Knows the Sons of the Divine.

--April 15, 1896

The Protest of Love "Those who there take refuge nevermore return."--Bhagavad Gita

Ere I lose myself in the vastness and drowse myself with the peace, While I gaze on the light and beauty afar from the dim homes of men, May I still feel the heart-pang and pity, love-ties that I would not release, May the voices of sorrow appealing call me back to their succour again.

Ere I storm with the tempest of power the thrones and dominions of old, Ere the ancient enchantment allures me to roam through the star- misty skies, I would go forth as one who has reaped well what harvest the earth may unfold: May my heart be o'erbrimmed with compa.s.sion, on my brow be the crown of the wise.

I would go as the dove from the ark sent forth with wishes and prayers To return with the paradise-blossoms that bloom in the eden of light: When the deep star-chant of the seraphs I hear in the mystical airs May I capture one tone of their joy for the sad ones discrowned in the night.

Not alone, not alone would I go to my rest in the Heart of the Love: Were I tranced in the innermost beauty, the flame of its tenderest breath, I would still hear the plaint of the fallen recalling me back from above To go down to the side of the mourners who weep in the shadow of death.

--May 15, 1896

The King Initiate "They took Iesous and scourged him."--St. John

Age after age the world has wept A joy supreme--I saw the hands Whose fiery radiations swept And burned away his earthly bands: And where they smote the living dyes Flashed like the plumes of paradise.

Their joys the heavy nations hush-- A form of purple glory rose Crowned with such rays of light as flush The white peaks on their towering snows: It held the magic wand that gave Rule over earth, air, fire and wave.

What sorrow makes the white cheeks wet: The mystic cross looms shadowy dim-- There where the fourfold powers have met And poured their living tides through him, The Son who hides his radiant crest To the dark Father's bosom pressed.

--June 15, 1896

The Dream of the Children

The children awoke in their dreaming While earth lay dewy and still: They followed the rill in its gleaming To the heart-light of the hill.

Its sounds and sights were forsaking The world as they faded in sleep, When they heard a music breaking Out from the heart-light deep.

It ran where the rill in its flowing Under the star-light gay With wonderful colour was glowing Like the bubbles they blew in their play.

From the misty mountain under Shot gleams of an opal star: Its pathways of rainbow wonder Rayed to their feet from afar.

From their feet as they strayed in the meadow It led through caverned aisles, Filled with purple and green light and shadow For mystic miles on miles.

The children were glad; it was lonely To play on the hill-side by day.

"But now," they said, "we have only To go where the good people stray."

For all the hill-side was haunted By the faery folk come again; And down in the heart-light enchanted Were opal-coloured men.

They moved like kings unattended Without a squire or dame, But they wore tiaras splendid With feathers of starlight flame.

They laughed at the children over And called them into the heart: "Come down here, each sleepless rover: We will show you some of our art."

And down through the cool of the mountain The children sank at the call, And stood in a blazing fountain And never a mountain at all.