—March 15, 1894

The Secret

One thing in all things have I seen:
        One thought has haunted earth and air;
Clangour and silence both have been
        Its palace chambers. Everywhere

I saw the mystic vision flow,
        And live in men, and woods, and streams,
Until I could no longer know
        The dream of life from my own dreams.

Sometimes it rose like fire in me,
        Within the depths of my own mind,
And spreading to infinity,
        It took the voices of the wind.

It scrawled the human mystery,
        Dim heraldry—on light and air;
Wavering along the starry sea,
        I saw the flying vision there.

Each fire that in God's temple lit
        Burns fierce before the inner shrine,
Dimmed as my fire grew near to it,
        And darkened at the light of mine.

At last, at last, the meaning caught:
        When spirit wears its diadem,
It shakes its wondrous plumes of thought,
        And trails the stars along with them.

—April 15, 1894

Dust

I heard them in their sadness say,
        "The earth rebukes the thought of God:
We are but embers wrapt in clay
        A little nobler than the sod."

But I have touched the lips of clay—
        Mother, thy rudest sod to me
Is thrilled with fire of hidden day,
        And haunted by all mystery.

—May 15, 1894

Magic
—After reading the Upanishads

Out of the dusky chamber of the brain
Flows the imperial will through dream on dream;
The fires of life around it tempt and gleam;
The lights of earth behind it fade and wane.

Passed beyond beauty tempting dream on dream,
The pure will seeks the hearthold of the light;
Sounds the deep "OM," the mystic word of might;
Forth from the hearthold breaks the living stream.

Passed out beyond the deep heart music-filled,
The kingly Will sits on the ancient throne,
Wielding the sceptre, fearless, free, alone,
Knowing in Brahma all it dared and willed.

—June 15, 1894

Immortality

We must pass like smoke, or live within the spirits' fire;
        For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return.
If our thought has changed to dream, or will into desire,
        As smoke we vanish o'er the fires that burn.

Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days;
        Surely here is soul; with it we have eternal breath;
In the fire of love we live or pass by many ways,
        By unnumbered ways of dream to death.

—July 15, 1894

The Man to the Angel

I have wept a million tears;
        Pure and proud one, where are thine?
What the gain of all your years
        That undimmed in beauty shine?

All your beauty cannot win
        Truth we learn in pain and sighs;
You can never enter in
        To the Circle of the Wise.

They are but the slaves of light
        Who have never known the gloom,
And between the dark and bright
        Willed in freedom their own doom.

Think not in your pureness there
        That our pain but follows sin;
There are fires for those who dare
        Seek the Throne of Might to win.

Pure one, from your pride refrain;
        Dark and lost amid the strife,
I am myriad years of pain
        Nearer to the fount of life.

When defiance fierce is thrown
        At the God to whom you bow,
Rest the lips of the Unknown
        Tenderest upon the brow.

—September 15, 1894

Songs of Olden Magic—II.

The Robing of the King —"His candle shined upon my head, and by his light I walked through darkness."—Job, xxix. 3

On the bird of air blue-breasted
        glint the rays of gold,
And a shadowy fleece above us
        waves the forest old,
Far through rumorous leagues of midnight
        stirred by breezes warm.
See the old ascetic yonder,
        Ah, poor withered form!
Where he crouches wrinkled over
        by unnumbered years
Through the leaves the flakes of moonfire
        fall like phantom tears.
At the dawn a kingly hunter
        passed proud disdain,
Like a rainbow-torrent scattered
        flashed his royal train.
Now the lonely one unheeded
        seeks earth's caverns dim,
Never king or princes will robe them
        radiantly as him.
Mid the deep enfolding darkness,
        follow him, oh seer,
While the arrow will is piercing
        fiery sphere on sphere.
Through the blackness leaps and sparkles
        gold and amethyst,
Curling, jetting and dissolving
        in a rainbow mist.
In the jewel glow and lunar
        radiance rise there
One, a morning star in beauty,
        young, immortal, fair.
Sealed in heavy sleep, the spirit
        leaves its faded dress,
Unto fiery youth returning
        out of weariness.
Music as for one departing,
        joy as for a king,
Sound and swell, and hark! above him
        cymbals triumphing.
Fire an aureole encircling
        suns his brow with gold
Like to one who hails the morning
        on the mountains old.
Open mightier vistas changing
        human loves to scorns,
And the spears of glory pierce him
        like a Crown of Thorns.
As the sparry rays dilating
        o'er his forehead climb
Once again he knows the Dragon
        Wisdom of the prime.
High and yet more high to freedom
        as a bird he springs,
And the aureole outbreathing,
        gold and silver wings
Plume the brow and crown the seraph.
        Soon his journey done
He will pass our eyes that follow,
        sped beyond the sun.
None may know the darker radiance,
        King, will there be thine.
Rapt above the Light and hidden
        in the Dark Divine.

—September 15, 1895

Brotherhood

Twilight a blossom grey in shadowy valleys dwells:
Under the radiant dark the deep blue-tinted bells
In quietness reimage heaven within their blooms,
Sapphire and gold and mystery. What strange perfumes,
Out of what deeps arising, all the flower-bells fling,
Unknowing the enchanted odorous song they sing!
Oh, never was an eve so living yet: the wood
Stirs not but breathes enraptured quietude.
Here in these shades the Ancient knows itself, the Soul,
And out of slumber waking starts unto the goal.
What bright companions nod and go along with it!
Out of the teeming dark what dusky creatures flit,
That through the long leagues of the island night above
Come wandering by me, whispering and beseeching love,—
As in the twilight children gather close and press
Nigh and more nigh with shadowy tenderness,
Feeling they know not what, with noiseless footsteps glide
Seeking familiar lips or hearts to dream beside.
Oh, voices, I would go with you, with you, away,
Facing once more the radiant gateways of the day;
With you, with you, what memories arise, and nigh
Trampling the crowded figures of the dawn go by;
Dread deities, the giant powers that warred on men
Grow tender brothers and gay children once again;
Fades every hate away before the Mother's breast
Where all the exiles of the heart return to rest.

—July 15, 1895

In the Womb

Still rests the heavy share on the dark soil:
        Upon the dull black mould the dew-damp lies:
The horse waits patient: from his lonely toil
        The ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes.

The unbudding hedgerows, dark against day's fires,
        Glitter with gold-lit crystals: on the rim
Over the unregarding city's spires
        The lonely beauty shines alone for him.

And day by day the dawn or dark enfolds,
        And feeds with beauty eyes that cannot see
How in her womb the Mighty Mother moulds
        The infant spirit for Eternity.

—January 15, 1895

In the Garden of God

Within the iron cities
        One walked unknown for years,
In his heart the pity of pities
        That grew for human tears

When love and grief were ended
        The flower of pity grew;
By unseen hands 'twas tended
        And fed with holy dew.

Though in his heart were barred in
        The blooms of beauty blown;
Yet he who grew the garden
        Could call no flower his own.

For by the hands that watered,
        The blooms that opened fair
Through frost and pain were scattered
        To sweeten the dull air.

—February 15, 1895

The Breath of Light

From the cool and dark-lipped furrows
        breathes a dim delight
Aureoles of joy encircle
        every blade of grass
Where the dew-fed creatures silent
        and enraptured pass:
And the restless ploughman pauses,
        turns, and wondering
Deep beneath his rustic habit
        finds himself a king;
For a fiery moment looking
        with the eyes of God
Over fields a slave at morning
        bowed him to the sod.
Blind and dense with revelation
        every moment flies,
And unto the Mighty Mother
        gay, eternal, rise
All the hopes we hold, the gladness,
        dreams of things to be.
One of all they generations,
        Mother, hails to thee!
Hail! and hail! and hail for ever:
        though I turn again
For they joy unto the human
        vestures of pain.
I, thy child, who went forth radiant
        in the golden prime
Find thee still the mother-hearted
        through my night in time;
Find in thee the old enchantment,
        there behind the veil
Where the Gods my brothers linger,
        Hail! for ever, Hail!

—May 15, 1895

The Free

They bathed in the fire-flooded fountains;
        Life girdled them round and about;
They slept in the clefts of the mountains:
        The stars called them forth with a shout.

They prayed, but their worship was only
        The wonder at nights and at days,
As still as the lips of the lonely
        Though burning with dumbness of praise.

No sadness of earth ever captured
        Their spirits who bowed at the shrine;
They fled to the Lonely enraptured
        And hid in the Darkness Divine.

At twilight as children may gather
        They met at the doorway of death,
The smile of the dark hidden Father
        The Mother with magical breath.

Untold of in song or in story,
        In days long forgotten of men,
Their eyes were yet blind with a glory
        Time will not remember again.

—November 15, 1895

Songs of Olden Magic—IV

The Magi

"The mountain was filled with the hosts of the Tuatha de Dannan."
—Old Celtic Poem

See where the auras from the olden fountain
        Starward aspire;
The sacred sign upon the holy mountain
        Shines in white fire:
Waving and flaming yonder o'er the snows
        The diamond light
Melts into silver or to sapphire glows
        Night beyond night;
And from the heaven of heavens descends on earth
        A dew divine.
Come, let us mingle in the starry mirth
        Around the shrine!
Enchantress, mighty mother, to our home
        In thee we press,
Thrilled by the fiery breath and wrapt in some
        Vast tenderness
The homeward birds uncertain o'er their nest
        Wheel in the dome,
Fraught with dim dreams of more enraptured rest,
        Wheel in the dome,
But gather ye to whose undarkened eyes
        The night is day:
Leap forth, Immortals, Birds of Paradise,
        In bright array
Robed like the shining tresses of the sun;
        And by his name
Call from his haunt divine the ancient one
        Our Father Flame.
Aye, from the wonder-light that wraps the star,
        Come now, come now;
Sun-breathing Dragon, ray thy lights afar,
        Thy children bow;
Hush with more awe the breath; the bright-browed races
        Are nothing worth
By those dread gods from out whose awful faces
        The earth looks forth
Infinite pity, set in calm; their vision cast
        Adown the years
Beholds how beauty burns away at last
        Their children's tears.
Now while our hearts the ancient quietness
        Floods with its tide,
The things of air and fire and height no less
        In it abide;
And from their wanderings over sea and shore
        They rise as one
Unto the vastness and with us adore
        The midnight sun;
And enter the innumerable All,
        And shine like gold,
And starlike gleam in the immortals' hall,
        The heavenly fold,
And drink the sun-breaths from the mother's lips
        Awhile—and then
Fail from the light and drop in dark eclipse
        To earth again,
Roaming along by heaven-hid promontory
        And valley dim.
Weaving a phantom image of the glory
        They knew in Him.
Out of the fulness flow the winds, their son
        Is heard no more,
Or hardly breathes a mystic sound along
        The dreamy shore:
Blindly they move unknowing as in trance,
        Their wandering
Is half with us, and half an inner dance
        Led by the King.

—January 15, 1896

W. Q. J. *

O hero of the iron age,
Upon thy grave we will not weep,
Nor yet consume away in rage
For thee and thy untimely sleep.
Our hearts a burning silence keep.

O martyr, in these iron days
One fate was sure for soul like thine:
Well you foreknew but went your ways.
The crucifixion is the sign,
The meed of all the kingly line.

We may not mourn—though such a night
Has fallen on our earthly spheres
Bereft of love and truth and light
As never since the dawn of years;—
For tears give birth alone to tears.

One wreath upon they grave we lay
(The silence of our bitter thought,
Words that would scorch their hearts of clay),
And turn to learn what thou has taught,
To shape our lives as thine was wrought.

—April 15, 1896

[* This is unsigned but is very possibly G.W. Russell's. It was a memoriam to William Quan Judge (W.Q.J), the leader of the American and European Theosophical Societies at the time, one of the original founders of the Theosophical Society, and close co-worker with H.P. Blavatsky.]

Fron the Book of the Eagle
—[St. John, i. 1-33]

In the mighty Mother's bosom was the Wise
With the mystic Father in aeonian night;
Aye, for ever one with them though it arise
        Going forth to sound its hymn of light.

At its incantation rose the starry fane;
At its magic thronged the myriad race of men;
Life awoke that in the womb so long had lain
        To its cyclic labours once again.

'Tis the soul of fire within the heart of life;
From its fiery fountain spring the will and thought;
All the strength of man for deeds of love or strife,
        Though the darkness comprehend it not.

In the mystery written here
John is but the life, the seer;
Outcast from the life of light,
Inly with reverted sight
Still he scans with eager eyes
The celestial mysteries.
Poet of all far-seen things
At his word the soul has wings,
Revelations, symbols, dreams
Of the inmost light which gleams.

The winds, the stars, and the skies though wrought
By the one Fire-Self still know it not;
And man who moves in the twilight dim
Feels not the love that encircles him,
Though in heart, on bosom, and eyelids press
Lips of an infinite tenderness,
He turns away through the dark to roam
Nor heeds the fire in his hearth and home.

They whose wisdom everywhere
Sees as through a crystal air
The lamp by which the world is lit,
And themselves as one with it;
In whom the eye of vision swells,
Who have in entranced hours
Caught the word whose might compels
All the elemental powers;
They arise as Gods from men
Like the morning stars again.
They who seek the place of rest
Quench the blood-heat of the breast,
Grow ascetic, inward turning
Trample down the lust from burning,
Silence in the self the will
For a power diviner still;
To the fire-born Self alone
The ancestral spheres are known.

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 God 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 God:
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 shining,
        Such a face the sons of men
See, and all its life divining
        Wake primeval fires again.

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

Who would know the God 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 shining 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 compassion, 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.

The lights were coming and going
        In many a shining strand,
For the opal fire-kings were blowing
        The darkness out of the land.

This golden breath was a madness
        To set a poet on fire,
And this was a cure for sadness,
        And that the ease of desire.

And all night long over Eri
        They fought with the wand of light
And love that never grew weary
        The evil things of night.

They said, as dawn glimmered hoary,
        "We will show yourselves for an hour;"
And the children were changed to a glory
        By the beautiful magic of power.

The fire-kings smiled on their faces
        And called them by olden names,
Till they towered like the starry races
        All plumed with the twilight flames.

They talked for a while together,
        How the toil of ages oppressed;
And of how they best could weather
        The ship of the world to its rest.

The dawn in the room was straying:
        The children began to blink,
When they heard a far voice saying,
        "You can grow like that if you think!"

The sun came in yellow and gay light:
        They tumbled out of the cot,
And half of the dream went with daylight
        And half was never forgot.

—July 15, 1896

The Chiefs of the Air

Their wise little heads with scorning
        They laid the covers between:
"Do they think we stay here till morning?"
        Said Rory and Aileen.

When out their bright eyes came peeping
        The room was no longer there,
And they fled from the dark world creeping
        Up a twilight cave of air.

They wore each one a gay dress,
        In sleep, if you understand,
When earth puts off its grey dress
        To robe it in faeryland.

Then loud o'erhead was a humming
        As clear as the wood wind rings;
And here were the air-boats coming
        And here the airy kings.

The magic barks were gleaming
        And swift as the feathered throng:
With wonder-lights out-streaming
        They blew themselves along.

And up on the night-wind swimming,
        With pose and dart and rise,
Away went the air fleet skimming
        Through a haze of jewel skies.

One boat above them drifted
        Apart from the flying bands,
And an air-chief bent and lifted
        The children with mighty hands.

The children wondered greatly,
        Three air-chiefs met them there,
They were tall and grave and stately
        With bodies of purple air.

A pearl light with misty shimmer
        Went dancing about them all,
As the dyes of the moonbow glimmer
        On a trembling waterfall.

The trail of the fleet to the far lands
        Was wavy along the night,
And on through the sapphire starlands
        They followed the wake of light.

"Look down, Aileen," said Rory,
        "The earth's as thin as a dream."
It was lit by a sun-fire glory
        Outraying gleam on gleam.

They saw through the dream-world under
        Its heart of rainbow flame
Where the starry people wander;
        Like gods they went and came.

The children looked without talking
        Till Roray spoke again,
"Are those our folk who are walking
        Like little shadow men?

"They don't see what is about them,
        They look like pigmies small,
The world would be full without them
        And they think themselves so tall!"

The magic bark went fleeting
        Like an eagle on and on;
Till over its prow came beating
        The foam-light of the dawn.

The children's dream grew fainter,
        Three air-chiefs still were there,
But the sun the shadow painter
        Drew five on the misty air.

The dream-light whirled bewild'ring,
        An air-chief said, "You know.
You are living now, my children,
        Ten thousand years ago."

They looked at themselves in the old light,
        And mourned the days of the new
Where naught is but darkness or cold light,
        Till a bell came striking through.

"We must go," said the wise young sages:
        It was five at dawn by the chimes,
And they ran through a thousand ages
        From the old De Danaan Times.

—August 15, 1896

The Palaces of the Sidhe

Two small sweet lives together
        From dawn till the dew falls down,
They danced over rock and heather
        Away from the dusty town.

Dark eyes like stars set in pansies,
        Blue eyes like a hero's bold—
Their thoughts were all pearl-light fancies,
        Their hearts in the age of gold.

They crooned o'er many a fable
        And longed for the bright-capped elves,
The faery folk who are able
        To make us faery ourselves.

A hush on the children stealing
        They stood there hand in hand,
For the elfin chimes were pealing
        Aloud in the underland.

And over the grey rock sliding,
        A fiery colour ran,
And out of its thickness gliding
        The twinkling mist of a man—

To-day for the children had fled to
        An ancient yesterday,
And the rill from its tunnelled bed too
        Had turned another way.

Then down through an open hollow
        The old man led with a smile:
"Come, star-hearts, my children, follow
        To the elfin land awhile."

The bells above them were hanging,
        Whenever the earth-breath blew
It made them go clanging, clanging,
        The vasty mountain through.

But louder yet than the ringing
        Came the chant of the elfin choir,
Till the mountain was mad with singing
        And dense with the forms of fire.

The kings of the faery races
        Sat high on the thrones of might,
And infinite years from their faces
        Looked out through eyes of light.

And one in a diamond splendour
        Shone brightest of all that hour,
More lofty and pure and tender,
        They called him the Flower of Power.

The palace walls were glowing
        Like stars together drawn,
And a fountain of air was flowing
        The primrose colour of dawn.

"Ah, see!" said Aileen sighing,
        With a bend of her saddened head
Where a mighty hero was lying,
        He looked like one who was dead.

"He will wake," said their guide, "'tis but seeming,
        And, oh, what his eyes shall see
I will know of only in dreaming
        Till I lie there still as he."

They chanted the song of waking,
        They breathed on him with fire,
Till the hero-spirit outbreaking,
        Shot radiant above the choir.

Like a pillar of opal glory
        Lit through with many a gem—
"Why, look at him now," said Rory,
        "He has turned to a faery like them!"

The elfin kings ascending
        Leaped up from the thrones of might,
And one with another blending
        They vanished in air and light.

The rill to its bed came splashing
        With rocks on the top of that:
The children awoke with a flashing
        Of wonder, "What were we at?"

They groped through the reeds and clover—
        "What funny old markings: look here,
They have scrawled the rocks all over:
        It's just where the door was: how queer!"

—September 15, 1896

The Voice of the Wise

They sat with hearts untroubled,
        The clear sky sparkled above,
And an ancient wisdom bubbled
        From the lips of a youthful love.

They read in a coloured history
        Of Egypt and of the Nile,
And half it seemed a mystery,
        Familiar, half, the while.

Till living out of the story
        Grew old Egyptian men,
And a shadow looked forth Rory
        And said, "We meet again!"

And over Aileen a maiden
        Looked back through the ages dim:
She laughed, and her eyes were laden
        With an old-time love for him.

In a mist came temples thronging
        With sphinxes seen in a row,
And the rest of the day was a longing
        For their homes of long ago.

"We'd go there if they'd let us,"
        They said with wounded pride:
"They never think when they pet us
        We are old like that inside."

There was some one round them straying
        The whole of the long day through,
Who seemed to say, "I am playing
        At hide-and-seek with you."

And one thing after another
        Was whispered out of the air,
How God was a big kind brother
        Whose home was in everywhere.

His light like a smile come glancing
        From the cool, cool winds as they pass;
From the flowers in heaven dancing
        And the stars that shine in the grass,

And the clouds in deep blue wreathing,
        And most from the mountains tall,
But God like a wind goes breathing
        A heart-light of gold in all.

It grows like a tree and pushes
        Its way through the inner gloom,
And flowers in quick little rushes
        Of love to a magic bloom.

And no one need sigh now or sorrow
        Whenever the heart-light flies,
For it comes again on some morrow
        And nobody ever dies.

The heart of the Wise was beating
        In the children's heart that day,
And many a thought came fleeting,
        And fancies solemn and gay.

They were grave in a way divining
        How childhood was taking wings,
And the wonder world was shining
        With vast eternal things.

The solemn twilight fluttered
        Like the plumes of seraphim,
And they felt what things were uttered
        In the sunset voice of Him.

They lingered long, for dearer
        Than home were the mountain places
Where God from the stars dropt nearer
        Their pale, dreamy faces.

Their very hearts from beating
        They stilled in awed delight.
For Spirit and children were meeting
        In the purple, ample night.

Dusk its ash-grey blossoms sheds on violet skies
Over twilight mountains where the heart-songs rise,
Rise and fall and fade again from earth to air:
Earth renews the music sweeter. Oh, come there.
Come, ma cushla, come, as in ancient times
Rings aloud and the underland with faery chimes.
Down the unseen ways as strays each tinkling fleece
Winding ever onward to a fold of peace,
So my dreams go straying in a land more fair;
Half I tread the dew-wet grasses, half wander there.
Fade your glimmering eyes in a world grown cold:
Come, ma cushla, with me to the mountain's fold,
Where the bright ones call us waving to and fro:
Come, my children, with me to the Ancient go.

—October 15, 1896

A Dawn Song

While the earth is dark and grey
        How I laugh within: I know
In my breast what ardours gay
        From the morning overflow.

Though the cheek be white and wet
        In my heart no fear may fall:
There my chieftain leads, and yet
        Ancient battle-trumpets call.

Bend on me no hasty frown
        If my spirit slight your cares:
Sunlike still my joy looks down
        Changing tears to beamy airs.

Think me not of fickle heart
        If with joy my bosom swells
Though your ways from mine depart:
        In the true are no farewells.

What I love in you I find
        Everywhere. A friend I greet
In each flower and tree and wind—
        Oh, but life is sweet, is sweet.

What to you are bolts and bars
        Are to me the hands that guide
To the freedom of the stars
        Where my golden kinsmen bide.

From my mountain top I view:
        Twilight's purple flower is gone,
And I send my song to you
        On the level light of dawn.

—November 15, 1896

—An Ancient Eden

Our legends tell of aery fountains upspringing in Eri, and how the people of long ago saw them not but only the Tuatha de Danaan. Some deem it was the natural outflow of water at these places which was held to be sacred; but above fountain, rill and river rose up the enchanted froth and foam of invisible rills and rivers breaking forth from Tir-na-noge, the soul of the island, and glittering in the sunlight of its mystic day. What we see here is imaged forth from that invisible soul and is a path thereto. In the heroic Epic of Cuculain Standish O'Grady writes of such a fountain, and prefixes his chapter with the verse from Genesis, "And four rivers went forth from Eden to water the garden," and what follows in reference thereto.

The Fountain of Shadowy Beauty
—A Dream

I would I could weave in
        The colour, the wonder,
The song I conceive in
        My heart while I ponder,

And show how it came like
        The magi of old
Whose chant was a flame like
        The dawn's voice of gold;

Who dreams followed near them
        A murmur of birds,
And ear still could hear them
        Unchanted in words.

In words I can only
        Reveal thee my heart,
Oh, Light of the Lonely,
        The shining impart.

Between the twilight and the dark
The lights danced up before my eyes:
I found no sleep or peace or rest,
But dreams of stars and burning skies.

I knew the faces of the day—
Dream faces, pale, with cloudy hair,
I know you not nor yet your home,
The Fount of Shadowy Beauty, where?

I passed a dream of gloomy ways
Where ne'er did human feet intrude:
It was the border of a wood,
A dreadful forest solitude.

With wondrous red and fairy gold
The clouds were woven o'er the ocean;
The stars in fiery aether swung
And danced with gay and glittering motion.

A fire leaped up within my heart
When first I saw the old sea shine;
As if a god were there revealed
I bowed my head in awe divine;

And long beside the dim sea marge
I mused until the gathering haze
Veiled from me where the silver tide
Ran in its thousand shadowy ways.

The black night dropped upon the sea:
The silent awe came down with it:
I saw fantastic vapours flit
As o'er the darkness of the pit.

When, lo! from out the furthest night
A speck of rose and silver light
Above a boat shaped wondrously
Came floating swiftly o'er the sea.

It was no human will that bore
The boat so fleetly to the shore
Without a sail spread or an oar.

The Pilot stood erect thereon
And lifted up his ancient face,
(Ancient with glad eternal youth
Like one who was of starry race.)

His face was rich with dusky bloom;
His eyes a bronze and golden fire;
His hair in streams of silver light
Hung flamelike on his strange attire

Which starred with many a mystic sign,
Fell as o'er sunlit ruby glowing:
His light flew o'er the waves afar
In ruddy ripples on each bar
Along the spiral pathways flowing.

It was a crystal boat that chased
The light along the watery waste,
Till caught amid the surges hoary
The Pilot stayed its jewelled glory.

Oh, never such a glory was:
The pale moon shot it through and through
With light of lilac, white and blue:
And there mid many a fairy hue
Of pearl and pink and amethyst,
Like lightning ran the rainbow gleams
And wove around a wonder-mist.

The Pilot lifted beckoning hands;
Silent I went with deep amaze
To know why came this Beam of Light
So far along the ocean ways
Out of the vast and shadowy night.

"Make haste, make haste!" he cried. "Away!
A thousand ages now are gone.
Yet thou and I ere night be sped
Will reck no more of eve or dawn."

Swift as the swallow to its nest
I leaped: my body dropt right down:
A silver star I rose and flew.
A flame burned golden at his breast:
I entered at the heart and knew
My Brother-Self who roams the deep,
Bird of the wonder-world of sleep.

The ruby body wrapped us round
As twain in one: we left behind
The league-long murmur of the shore
And fleeted swifter than the wind.

The distance rushed upon the bark:
We neared unto the mystic isles:
The heavenly city we could mark,
Its mountain light, its jewel dark,
Its pinnacles and starry piles.

The glory brightened: "Do not fear;
For we are real, though what seems
So proudly built above the waves
Is but one mighty spirit's dreams.

"Our Father's house hath many fanes;
Yet enter not and worship not,
For thought but follows after thought
Till last consuming self it wanes.

"The Fount of Shadowy Beauty flings
Its glamour o'er the light of day:
A music in the sunlight sings
To call the dreamy hearts away
Their mighty hopes to ease awhile:
We will not go the way of them:
The chant makes drowsy those who seek
The sceptre and the diadem.

"The Fount of Shadowy Beauty throws
Its magic round us all the night;
What things the heart would be, it sees
And chases them in endless flight.
Or coiled in phantom visions there
It builds within the halls of fire;
Its dreams flash like the peacock's wing
And glow with sun-hues of desire.
We will not follow in their ways
Nor heed the lure of fay or elf,
But in the ending of our days
Rest in the high Ancestral Self."

The boat of crystal touched the shore,
Then melted flamelike from our eyes,
As in the twilight drops the sun
Withdrawing rays of paradise.

We hurried under arched aisles
That far above in heaven withdrawn
With cloudy pillars stormed the night,
Rich as the opal shafts of dawn.

I would have lingered then—but he—
"Oh, let us haste: the dream grows dim,
Another night, another day,
A thousand years will part from him

"Who is that Ancient One divine
From whom our phantom being born
Rolled with the wonder-light around
Had started in the fairy morn.

"A thousand of our years to him
Are but the night, are but the day,
Wherein he rests from cyclic toil
Or chants the song of starry sway.

"He falls asleep: the Shadowy Fount
Fills all our heart with dreams of light:
He wakes to ancient spheres, and we
Through iron ages mourn the night.
We will not wander in the night
But in a darkness more divine
Shall join the Father Light of Lights
And rule the long-descended line."

Even then a vasty twilight fell:
Wavered in air the shadowy towers:
The city like a gleaming shell,
Its azures, opals, silvers, blues,
Were melting in more dreamy hues.
We feared the falling of the night
And hurried more our headlong flight.
In one long line the towers went by;
The trembling radiance dropt behind,
As when some swift and radiant one
Flits by and flings upon the wind
The rainbow tresses of the sun.

And then they vanished from our gaze
Faded the magic lights, and all
Into a Starry Radiance fell
As waters in their fountain fall.

We knew our time-long journey o'er
And knew the end of all desire,
And saw within the emerald glow
Our Father like the white sun-fire.

We could not say if age or youth
Were on his face: we only burned
To pass the gateways of the Day,
The exiles to the heart returned.

He rose to greet us and his breath,
The tempest music of the spheres,
Dissolved the memory of earth,
The cyclic labour and our tears.
In him our dream of sorrow passed,
The spirit once again was free
And heard the song the Morning-Stars
Chant in eternal revelry.

This was the close of human story;
We saw the deep unmeasured shine,
And sank within the mystic glory
They called of old the Dark Divine.

Well it is gone now,
        The dream that I chanted:
On this side the dawn now
        I sit fate-implanted.

But though of my dreaming
        The dawn has bereft me,
It all was not seeming
        For something has left me.

I fell in some other
        World far from this cold light
The Dream Bird, my brother,
        Is rayed with the gold light.

I too in the Father
        Would hide me, and so,
Bright Bird, to foregather
        With thee now I go.

—December 15, 1896

A New Earth

        "Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
        When a new planet swims within his ken."

I who had sought afar from earth
        The faery land to greet,
Now find content within its girth,
        And wonder nigh my feet.

To-day a nearer love I choose
        And seek no distant sphere,
For aureoled by faery dews
        The dear brown breasts appear.

With rainbow radiance come and go
        The airy breaths of day,
And eve is all a pearly glow
        With moonlit winds a-play.

The lips of twilight burn my brow,
        The arms of night caress:
Glimmer her white eyes drooping now
        With grave old tenderness.

I close mine eyes from dream to be
        The diamond-rayed again,
As in the ancient hours ere we
        Forgot ourselves to men.

And all I thought of heaven before
        I find in earth below,
A sunlight in the hidden core
        To dim the noon-day glow.

And with the Earth my heart is glad,
        I move as one of old,
With mists of silver I am clad
        And bright with burning gold.

—February 1896

Duality

        "From me spring good and evil."
Who gave thee such a ruby flaming heart,
And such a pure cold spirit? Side by side
I know these must eternally abide
In intimate war, and each to each impart
Life from their pain, with every joy a dart
To wound with grief or death the self-allied.
Red life within the spirit crucified,
The eyes eternal pity thee, thou art
Fated with deathless powers at war to be,
Not less the martyr of the world than he
Whose thorn-crowned brow usurps the due of tears
We would pay to thee, ever ruddy life,
Whose passionate peace is still to be at strife,
O'erthrown but in the unconflicting spheres.

—March 15, 1896 (This is unsigned, but in AE's "Collected Poems")

The Element Language

In a chapter in the Secret Doctrine dealing with the origin of language, H.P. Blavatsky makes some statements which are quoted here and which should be borne well in mind in considering what follows. "The Second Race had a 'Sound Language,' to wit, chant-like sounds composed of vowels alone." From this developed "monosyllabic speech which was the vowel parent, so to speak, of the monosyllabic languages mixed with hard consonants still in use among the yellow races which are known to the anthropologist. The linguistic characteristics developed into the agglutinative languages…. The inflectional speech, the root of the Sanskrit, was the first language (now the mystery tongue of the Initiates) of the Fifth Race."

The nature of that language has not been disclosed along with other teaching concerning the evolution of the race, but like many other secrets the details of which are still preserved by the Initiates, it is implied in what has already been revealed. The application to speech of the abstract formula of evolution which they have put forward should result in its discovery, for the clue lies in correspondences; know the nature of any one thing perfectly, learn its genesis, development and consummation, and you have the key to all the mysteries of nature. The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm. But, before applying this key, it is well to glean whatever hints have been given, so that there may be less chance of going astray in our application. First, we gather from the Secret Doctrine that the sounds of the human voice are correlated with the forces, colours, numbers and forms. "Every letter has its occult meaning, the vowels especially contain the most occult and formidable potencies." (S.D., I, 94) and again it is said "The magic of the ancient priests consisted in those days in addressing their gods in their own language. The speech of the men of earth cannot reach the Lords, each must be addressed in the language of his respective element"—-is a sentence which will be shown pregnant with meaning. "The book of rules" cited adds as an explanation of the nature of that element- language: "It is composed of Sounds, not words; of sounds, numbers and figures. He who knows how to blend the three, will call forth the response of the superintending Power" (the regent-god of the specific element needed). Thus this "language is that of incantations or of Mantras, as they are called in India, sound being the most potent and effectual magic agent, and the first of the keys which opens the door of communication between mortals and immortals." (S.D. I, 464)

From these quotations it will be seen that the occult teachings as to speech are directly at variance with the theories of many philologists and evolutionists. A first speech which was like song— another and more developed speech which is held sacred—an esoteric side to speech in which the elements of our conventional languages (i.e. the letters) are so arranged that speech becomes potent enough to guide the elements, and human speech becomes the speech of the gods—there is no kinship between this ideal language and the ejaculations and mimicry which so many hold to be the root and beginning of it. Yet those who wish to defend their right to hold the occult teaching have little to fear from the champions of these theories; they need not at all possess any deep scholarship or linguistic attainment; the most cursory view of the roots of primitive speech, so far as they have been collected, will show that they contain few or no sounds of a character which would bear out either the onomatopoetic or interjectional theories. The vast majority of the roots of the Aryan language express abstract ideas, they rarely indicate the particular actions which would be capable of being suggested by any mimicry possible to the human voice. I have selected at random from a list of roots their English equivalents, in order to show the character of the roots and to make clearer the difficulty of holding such views. The abstract nature of the ideas, relating to actions and things which often have no attendant sound in nature, will indicate what I mean. What possible sounds could mimic the sense of "to move, to shine, to gain, to flow, to burn, to blow, to live, to possess, to cover, to fall, to praise, to think"? In fact the most abstract of all seem the most primitive for we find them most fruitful in combination to for other words. I hope to show this clearly later on. It is unnecessary to discuss the claims of the interjectional theory, as it is only a theory, and there are few roots for which we could infer even a remote origin of this nature. The great objection to the theory that speech was originally a matter of convention and mutual agreement, is the scarcity of words among the roots which express the wants of primitive man. As it is, a wisdom within or beyond the Aryan led him to construct in these roots with their abstract significance an ideal foundation from which a great language could be developed. However as the exponents of rival theories have demolished each other's arguments, without anyone having established a clear case for himself, it is not necessary here to do more than indicate these theories and how they may be met.

In putting forward a hypothesis more in accord with the doctrine of the spiritual origin of man, and in harmony with those occult ideas concerning speech already quoted, I stand in a rather unusual position, as I have to confess my ignorance of any of these primitive languages. I am rather inclined however, to regard this on the whole as an advantage for the following reasons. I think primitive man (the early Aryan) chose his words by a certain intuition which recognised an innate correspondence between the thought and the symbol. Para passu with the growing complexity of civilization language lost it spiritual character, "it fell into matter," to use H.P. Blavatsky's expression; as the conventional words necessary to define artificial products grew in number, in the memory of these words the spontaneity of speech was lost, and that faculty became atrophied which enable man to arrange with psychic rapidity ever new combinations of sounds to express emotion and thought. Believing then that speech was originally intuitive, and that it only need introspection and a careful analysis of the sounds of the human voice, to recover the faculty and correspondences between these sounds and forces, colours, forms, etc., it will be seen why I do not regard my ignorance of these languages as altogether a drawback. The correspondences necessarily had to be evolved out of my inner consciousness, and in doing this no aid could be derived from the Aryan roots as they now stand. In the meaning attached to each letter is to be found the key to the meaning and origin of roots; but the value of each sound separately could never be discovered by an examination of them in their combinations, though their value and purpose in combination to form words might be evident enough once the significance of the letters is shewn. Any lack of knowledge then is only a disadvantage in this, that it limits the area from which to choose illustrations. I have felt it necessary to preface what I have to say with this confession, to show exactly the position in which I stand. The correspondences between sounds and forces were first evolved, and an examination of the Aryan roots proved the key capable of application.

———— Note:—In an article which appeared in the Theosophist, Dec. 1887, I had attempted, with the assistance of my friend Mr. Chas. Johnston, to put forward some of the ideas which form the subject matter of this paper. Owing to the numerous misprints which rendered it unintelligible I have felt it necessary to altogether re-write it. —-G.W.R. ————

It is advisable at this point to consider how correspondences arose between things seeming so diverse as sounds, forms, colors and forces. It is evident that they could only come about through the existence of a common and primal cause reflecting itself everywhere in different elements and various forms of life. This primal unity lies at the root of all occult philosophy and science; the One becomes Many; the ideas latent in Universal Mind are thrown outwards into manifestation. In the Bhagavad-Gita (chap. IV) Krishna declares: "even though myself unborn, of changeless essence, and the lord of all existence, yet in presiding over nature—which is mine—I am born but through my own maya, the mystic power of self-ideation, the eternal thought in the eternal mind." "I establish the universe with a single portion of myself and remain separate;" he says later on, and in so presiding he becomes the cause of the appearance of the different qualities. "I am in the taste in water, the light in the sun and moon, the mystic syllable OM in all the Vedas, sound in space, the masculine essence in men, the sweet smell in the earth, the brightness in the fire" etc. Pouring forth then from one fountain we should expect to find correspondences running everywhere throughout nature; we should expect to find all these things capable of correlation. Coexistent with manifestation arise the ideas of time and space, and these qualities, attributes or forces, which are latent and unified in the germinal thought, undergo a dual transformation; they appear successively in time, and what we call evolution progresses through Kalpa after Kalpa and Manvantara after Manvantara: the moods which dominate these periods incarnate in matter, which undergoes endless transformations and takes upon itself all forms in embodying these sates of consciousness.

The order in which these powers manifest is declared in the Puranas, Upanishads and Tantric works. It is that abstract formula of evolution which we can apply alike to the great and little things in nature. This may be stated in many ways, but to put it briefly, there is at first one divine Substance-Principle, Flame, Motion or the Great Breath; from this emanate the elements Akasa, ether, fire, air, water and earth; the spiritual quality becoming gradually lessened in these as they are further removed from their divine source; this is the descent into matter, the lowest rung of manifestation. "Having consolidated itself in its last principle as gross matter, it revolves around itself and informs with the seventh emanation of the last, the first and lowest element." (S.D. I, p. 297) This involution of the higher into the lower urges life upwards through the mineral, vegetable, animal and human kingdoms, until it culminates in spiritually and self consciousness. It is not necessary here to go more into detail, it is enough to say that the elements in nature begin as passive qualities, their ethereal nature becomes gross, then positive and finally spiritual, and this abstract formula holds good for everything in nature. These changes which take place in the universe are repeated in man its microcosm, the cosmic force which acts upon matter and builds up systems of suns and planets, working in him repeats itself and builds up a complex organism which corresponds and is correlated with its cosmic counterpart. The individual spirit Purusha dwells in the heart of every creature, its powers ray forth everywhere; they pervade the different principles or vehicles; they act through the organs of sense; they play upon the different plexuses; every principle and organ being specialised as the vehicle for a particular force or state of consciousness. All the sounds we can utter have their significance; they express moods; they create forms; they arouse to active life within ourselves spiritual and psychic forces which are centered in various parts of the body. Hence the whole organism of man is woven through and through with such correspondences; our thoughts, emotions, sensations, the forces we use, colours and sounds acting on different planes are all correlated among themselves, and are also connected with the forces evolving present about us, in which we live and move. We find such correspondences form the subject matter of many Upanishads and other occult treatises; for example in Yajnavalkyasamhita, a treatise on Yoga philosophy, we find the sound "Ra" associated with the element of fire, Tejas Tatwa, with the God Rudra, with a centre in the body just below the heart. Other books add, as correspondences of Tejas Tatwa, that its colour is red, its taste is hot, its form is a triangle and its force is expansion. The correspondences given in different treatises often vary; but what we can gather with certainty is that there must have existed a complete science of the subject; the correlation of sound with such things, once understood, is the key which explains, not only the magic potency of sound, but also the constuction of those roots which remain as relics of the primitive Aryan speech.

The thinking principle in man, having experiences of nature through its vehicles, the subtle, astral and gross physical bodies, translates these sensations into its own set of correspondences: this principle in man, called the Manas, is associated with the element of akasa, whose property is sound; the Manas moves about in akasa, and so all ideas which enter into the mind awaken their correspondences and are immediately mirrored in sound. Let us take as an instance the perception of the colour red; this communicated to the mind would set up a vibration, causing a sound to be thrown outwards in mental manifestation, and in this way the impulse would arise to utter the letter R, the correspondence of this colour. This Manasic principle in man, the real Ego, is eternal in its nature; it exists before and after the body, something accruing to it from each incarnation; and so, because there is present in the body of man this long-traveled soul, bearing with it traces of its eternal past, these letters which are the elements of its speech have impressed on them a correspondence, not only with the forces natural to its transitory surroundings, but also with that vaster evolution of nature in which it has taken part. These correspondences next claim our attention.