The Unknown Eros Part 2

And so the fear, which is love's chilly dawn, Flush'd faintly upon lids that droop'd like thine, And made me weak, By thy delusive likeness doubly drawn, And Nature's long suspended breath of flame Persuading soft, and whispering Duty's name, Awhile to smile and speak With this thy Sister sweet, and therefore mine; Thy Sister sweet, Who bade the wheels to stir Of sensitive delight in the poor brain, Dead of devotion and tired memory, So that I lived again, And, strange to aver, With no relapse into the void inane, For thee; But (treason was't?) for thee and also her.

XII. MAGNA EST VERITAS.

Here, in this little Bay, Full of tumultuous life and great repose, Where, twice a day, The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes, Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town, I sit me down.

For want of me the world's course will not fail: When all its work is done, the lie shall rot; The truth is great, and shall prevail, When none cares whether it prevail or not.

XIII. 1867. {29}

In the year of the great crime, When the false English n.o.bles and their Jew, By G.o.d demented, slew The Trust they stood twice pledged to keep from wrong, One said, Take up thy Song, That breathes the mild and almost mythic time Of England's prime!

But I, Ah, me, The freedom of the few That, in our free Land, were indeed the free, Can song renew?

Ill singing 'tis with blotting prison-bars, How high soe'er, betwixt us and the stars; Ill singing 'tis when there are none to hear; And days are near When England shall forget The fading glow which, for a little while, Illumes her yet, The lovely smile That grows so faint and wan, Her people shouting in her dying ear, Are not two daws worth two of any swan!

Ye outlaw'd Best, who yet are bright With the sunken light, Whose common style Is Virtue at her gracious ease, The flower of olden sanct.i.ties, Ye haply trust, by love's benignant guile, To lure the dark and selfish brood To their own hated good; Ye haply dream Your lives shall still their charmful sway sustain, Unstifled by the fever'd steam That rises from the plain.

Know, 'twas the force of function high, In corporate exercise, and public awe Of Nature's, Heaven's, and England's Law That Best, though mix'd with Bad, should reign, Which kept you in your sky!

But, when the sordid Trader caught The loose-held sceptre from your hands distraught, And soon, to the Mechanic vain, Sold the proud toy for nought, Your charm was broke, your task was sped, Your beauty, with your honour, dead, And though you still are dreaming sweet Of being even now not less Than G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses, ye shall not long so cheat Your hearts of their due heaviness.

Go, get you for your evil watching shriven!

Leave to your lawful Master's itching hands Your unking'd lands, But keep, at least, the dignity Of deigning not, for his smooth use, to be, Voteless, the voted delegates Of his strange interests, loves and hates.

In sackcloth, or in private strife With private ill, ye may please Heaven, And soothe the coming pangs of sinking life; And prayer perchance may win A term to G.o.d's indignant mood And the orgies of the mult.i.tude, Which now begin; But do not hope to wave the silken rag Of your unsanction'd flag, And so to guide The great s.h.i.+p, helmless on the swelling tide Of that presumptuous Sea, Unlit by sun or moon, yet inly bright With lights innumerable that give no light, Flames of corrupted will and scorn of right, Rejoicing to be free.

And, now, because the dark comes on apace When none can work for fear, And Liberty in every Land lies slain, And the two Tyrannies unchallenged reign, And heavy prophecies, suspended long At supplication of the righteous few, And so discredited, to fulfilment throng, Restrain'd no more by faithful prayer or tear, And the dread baptism of blood seems near That brings to the humbled Earth the Time of Grace, Breathless be song, And let Christ's own look through The darkness, suddenly increased, To the gray secret lingering in the East.

XIV. 'IF I WERE DEAD.'

'If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!'

The dear lips quiver'd as they spake, And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled.

Poor Child, poor Child!

I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song.

It is not true that Love will do no wrong.

Poor Child!

And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make?

Poor Child, poor Child!

And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O G.o.d, have Thou no mercy upon me!

Poor Child!

XV. PEACE.

O England, how hast thou forgot, In dullard care for undisturb'd increase Of gold, which profits not, The gain which once thou knew'st was for thy peace!

Honour is peace, the peace which does accord Alone with G.o.d's glad word: 'My peace I send you, and I send a sword.'

O England, how hast thou forgot, How fear'st the things which make for joy, not fear, Confronted near.

Hard days? 'Tis what the pamper'd seek to buy With their most willing gold in weary lands.

Loss and pain risk'd? What sport but understands These for incitements! Suddenly to die, With conscience a blurr'd scroll?

The suns.h.i.+ne dreaming upon Salmon's height Is not so sweet and white As the most heretofore sin-spotted soul That darts to its delight Straight from the absolution of a faithful fight.

Myriads of homes unloosen'd of home's bond, And fill'd with helpless babes and harmless women fond?

Let those whose pleasant chance Took them, like me, among the German towns, After the war that pluck'd the fangs from France, With me p.r.o.nounce Whether the frequent black, which then array'd Child, wife, and maid, Did most to magnify the sombreness of grief, Or add the beauty of a staid relief And freshening foil To cheerful-hearted Honour's ready smile!

Beneath the heroic sun Is there then none Whose sinewy wings by choice do fly In the fine mountain-air of public obloquy, To tell the sleepy mongers of false ease That war's the ordained way of all alive, And therein with goodwill to dare and thrive Is profit and heart's peace?

But in his heart the fool now saith: 'The thoughts of Heaven were past all finding out, Indeed, if it should rain Intolerable woes upon our Land again, After so long a drought!'

'Will a kind Providence our vessel whelm, With such a pious Pilot at the helm?'

'Or let the throats be cut of pretty sheep That care for nought but pasture rich and deep?'

'Were 't Evangelical of G.o.d to deal so foul a blow At people who hate Turks and Papists so?'

'What, make or keep A tax for s.h.i.+p and gun, When 'tis full three to one Yon bully but intends To beat our friends?'

'Let's put aside Our costly pride.

Our appet.i.te's not gone Because we've learn'd to doff Our caps, where we were used to keep them on.'

'If times get worse, We've money in our purse, And Patriots that know how, let who will scoff, To buy our perils off.

Yea, blessed in our midst Art thou who lately didst, So cheap, The old bargain of the Saxon with the Dane.' {35} Thus in his heart the fool now saith; And, lo, our trusted leaders trust fool's luck, Which, like the whale's 'mazed chine, When they thereon were mulling of their wine, Will some day duck.

Remnant of Honour, brooding in the dark Over your bitter cark, Staring, as Rispah stared, astonied seven days, Upon the corpses of so many sons, Who loved her once, Dead in the dim and lion-haunted ways, Who could have dreamt That times should come like these!

Prophets, indeed, taught lies when we were young, And people loved to have it so; For they teach well who teach their scholars' tongue!

But that the foolish both should gaze, With feeble, fascinated face, Upon the wan crest of the coming woe, The billow of earthquake underneath the seas, And sit at ease, Or stand agape, Without so much as stepping back to 'scape, Mumbling, 'Perchance we perish if we stay: 'Tis certain wear of shoes to stir away!'

Who could have dreamt That times should come like these!

Remnant of Honour, tongue-tied with contempt, Consider; you are strong yet, if you please.

A hundred just men up, and arm'd but with a frown, May hoot a hundred thousand false loons down, Or drive them any way like geese.

But to sit silent now is to suborn The common villainy you scorn.

In the dark hour When phrases are in power, And nought's to choose between The thing which is not and which is not seen, One fool, with l.u.s.ty lungs, Does what a hundred wise, who hate and hold their tongues, Shall ne'er undo.

In such an hour, When eager hands are fetter'd and too few, And hearts alone have leave to bleed, Speak; for a good word then is a good deed.

XVI. A FAREWELL.

With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part.

My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear.

It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere.

Go thou to East, I West.

We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away.

But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry.

XVII. 1880-85.

Stand by, Ye Wise, by whom Heav'n rules!

Your kingly hands suit not the hangman's tools.

When G.o.d has doom'd a glorious Past to die, Are there no knaves and fools?

For ages yet to come your kind shall count for nought.

Smoke of the strife of other Powers Than ours, And tongues inscrutable with fury fraught 'Wilder the sky, Till the far good which none can guess be wrought.

Stand by!

Since tears are vain, here let us rest and laugh, But not too loudly; for the brave time's come, When Best may not blaspheme the Bigger Half, And freedom for our sort means freedom to be dumb.

Lo, how the dross and draff Jeer up at us, and shout, 'The Day is ours, the Night is theirs!'