THE SCAR.
Heart heavy, her mantle torn, and with bleeding feet;
As from out some Dream b’yond wide-visioned Night,
Unverged, unfollowed where her infinites meet,
On brow, withal, an unextinguishable Light,
As from out some Dream b’yond wide-visioned Night,
Unverged, unfollowed where her infinites meet,
On brow, withal, an unextinguishable Light,
Came crownless Glory, seeking of the haunts of man,
To find him from her faith same swerver still,
Who, tho’ suffered factor in this fabled Plan,
Its wonder jars with shock of passion and the worldly will.
To find him from her faith same swerver still,
Who, tho’ suffered factor in this fabled Plan,
Its wonder jars with shock of passion and the worldly will.
From out those self-same Deeps, against whose Sight
Yon white suns veil them, that o’ Times they are,
Came also he, the Greed—his lust of Have and love of Might,
To fame his flush, tho’ shrouded, nay, how brazen, Star.
Yon white suns veil them, that o’ Times they are,
Came also he, the Greed—his lust of Have and love of Might,
To fame his flush, tho’ shrouded, nay, how brazen, Star.
Full-orbed, if ever, thro’ yet feud of Days,
Whose strides would bridge it, but contrive no span,
Where, beneath, tides on forever, yea, in shrewder maze
Time’s scruteless burden, since his own began;
Whose strides would bridge it, but contrive no span,
Where, beneath, tides on forever, yea, in shrewder maze
Time’s scruteless burden, since his own began;
Whose Strange withal to lighten, ’less all hope were dumb,
And, ere the Riddle wearied that no answer grew,
What still some sad twinge told him must abide its sum,
Yet, on some wild prospect that chance Glory knew,
And, ere the Riddle wearied that no answer grew,
What still some sad twinge told him must abide its sum,
Yet, on some wild prospect that chance Glory knew,
In this crude fashion sought to draw the Seraph out:
“Why dost thou moan? Will Man ne’er know thee as thou really art?
Mark how I am followed, how his bawdy rout,
His brutish hordes, have throve and fatted at my feeling heart!
“Why dost thou moan? Will Man ne’er know thee as thou really art?
Mark how I am followed, how his bawdy rout,
His brutish hordes, have throve and fatted at my feeling heart!
“How I have led him from ’way down the Scale,
While something better,—yes, I’ve dreamt ’twas you,—
Devised those touches, made his red hand quail,
Reproved the bully when most fierce he slew.”
While something better,—yes, I’ve dreamt ’twas you,—
Devised those touches, made his red hand quail,
Reproved the bully when most fierce he slew.”
“Yet, look you, even when his best is told,
Some bias granted where awards divide;
Under the glass now—is he other than the beast of old,
Have your pricks struck deeper than his spotty hide?”
Some bias granted where awards divide;
Under the glass now—is he other than the beast of old,
Have your pricks struck deeper than his spotty hide?”
Is your varnish more than the rogue’s, whose saint
For a fast or vigil wipes him, then gross-daubs him new?
Ah! that I chance fouled him, helped flush the paint?
Tut, tut, that still outfathoms, yea, or me, or you.
For a fast or vigil wipes him, then gross-daubs him new?
Ah! that I chance fouled him, helped flush the paint?
Tut, tut, that still outfathoms, yea, or me, or you.
Come, be wise! Subscribe me proper! Sleek my Spoiler’s hand,
So its foul grip hallow, thought a blight before,—
Avouch it mine that grace that haunts me while the Heavens stand,
Since first my gray dawn dimmed it ’mong white lights of yore.
So its foul grip hallow, thought a blight before,—
Avouch it mine that grace that haunts me while the Heavens stand,
Since first my gray dawn dimmed it ’mong white lights of yore.
Why should’st thou sorrow? Why those bleeding feet?
Thy humble garment? Yon rapt, far-off gaze?
The voice that falters thro’ its dim entreat?
Thy brow, sore pondering of this thankless maze,—
Thy humble garment? Yon rapt, far-off gaze?
The voice that falters thro’ its dim entreat?
Thy brow, sore pondering of this thankless maze,—
Thy brow, where lo!—ah, ’tis the riddle which I blind pursue—
Yon fond star frets it and divides thy gloom:
Hark! Wilt thou not lend it me? In guise of True,
Let its rose be grafted on my baser bloom?
Yon fond star frets it and divides thy gloom:
Hark! Wilt thou not lend it me? In guise of True,
Let its rose be grafted on my baser bloom?
Since, how then still goodlier might my outward show;
My pose, my policy, each brood of shame,
Which my wily statists at their game of draw—
My foxy henchmen—give a smoother name;
My pose, my policy, each brood of shame,
Which my wily statists at their game of draw—
My foxy henchmen—give a smoother name;
How still more potent were my toils than now,—
When “Nay” spoke gently Glory, “that out-goes my leave:
How might I stand me where the high Fates bow
Before the Will, that crowns no issue not thine own achieve.”
When “Nay” spoke gently Glory, “that out-goes my leave:
How might I stand me where the high Fates bow
Before the Will, that crowns no issue not thine own achieve.”
“What! Thou wilt not?” Came the fierce respond,
As on deep Night there rose a mocking and a damned wail,
“Mark how I justify my bitter bond,
How where fools refuse me there I grim assail!”
As on deep Night there rose a mocking and a damned wail,
“Mark how I justify my bitter bond,
How where fools refuse me there I grim assail!”
When, forth, on its fell errand, went a grisly hand,
As the dread skies shook them and the winds spoke hoarse,
To grasp the star no wheedling parley, nor no harsh command,
May impious sever from its bounden course.
As the dread skies shook them and the winds spoke hoarse,
To grasp the star no wheedling parley, nor no harsh command,
May impious sever from its bounden course.
Nay, for one foul moment gripped it, made the Jewel press
Those hairy temples where the gross thoughts strive
To vie the light no false faith borrows, so its sheen may bless
And cloak the trickster while his jugglings thrive;
Those hairy temples where the gross thoughts strive
To vie the light no false faith borrows, so its sheen may bless
And cloak the trickster while his jugglings thrive;
But like a shadow shall its wonder chill:
So even here: it left more pinched the low brow there,
Yet, as if sorry even for unrighteous will,
Made still, for ruth, the base ridge wear,
At upward blazon ’tward yon veiled Deeps,
Where the lights ensky them past the zenith star,
A blot—a bruise, whose fiery throb no opiate sleeps,
A branding, brazen, yet a piteous scar;
So even here: it left more pinched the low brow there,
Yet, as if sorry even for unrighteous will,
Made still, for ruth, the base ridge wear,
At upward blazon ’tward yon veiled Deeps,
Where the lights ensky them past the zenith star,
A blot—a bruise, whose fiery throb no opiate sleeps,
A branding, brazen, yet a piteous scar;
Which, in his better hour, he, the ogre, Greed,
Applying to its sorry wound the comfort of the salve,
Which ’gainst Time’s woe, for even him, the high Hopes breed,
Allays that brutal sting—his love of Rule and lust of Have.
Applying to its sorry wound the comfort of the salve,
Which ’gainst Time’s woe, for even him, the high Hopes breed,
Allays that brutal sting—his love of Rule and lust of Have.
But out, alas! When sad companion of the fated Night,
Whence, struggling tho’ her bitter spur, his dark will came,
He aims to conjure with yon gentler Light,
To screen his knavish Cant, filch Glory’s name;
When cloaked in practise, till the Heavens doubt,
False hopes estrange him with his franker star;
How vengeful then, how giant grim, stands fiery out
Yon thievish, brazen, branding Scar!
Whence, struggling tho’ her bitter spur, his dark will came,
He aims to conjure with yon gentler Light,
To screen his knavish Cant, filch Glory’s name;
When cloaked in practise, till the Heavens doubt,
False hopes estrange him with his franker star;
How vengeful then, how giant grim, stands fiery out
Yon thievish, brazen, branding Scar!
TO ENGLAND: A FORECAST.
(With a side-light on Kipling’s verse “The Islanders.”)
“Those flanneled fools at the wicket,
Those muddied Oafs at the goal.”
Those muddied Oafs at the goal.”
Oh yes, make no doubt,—you shall need them;
If not now, at some near-upon time,
P’rhaps fast as your mothers dare breed them,
Those fools of his militant rhyme.
If not now, at some near-upon time,
P’rhaps fast as your mothers dare breed them,
Those fools of his militant rhyme.
For, tho’ it be not a day that covers
What stern Reckoners, withal, must try,
And, ere Retribution that hovers
Shall swoop down on the Greed and the lie;
What stern Reckoners, withal, must try,
And, ere Retribution that hovers
Shall swoop down on the Greed and the lie;
Yet, sure as red War do thin them,
Your brave ranks dished cold on his tray,
Shall your wits study hard how to win them—
Adding craft to his ravenous play—
Your brave ranks dished cold on his tray,
Shall your wits study hard how to win them—
Adding craft to his ravenous play—
Those flanneled fools where they dally,
With yet good trick o’ the human left,
Who trace, thro’ the bounce and the rally,
The gross hand of the clumsiest theft;
With yet good trick o’ the human left,
Who trace, thro’ the bounce and the rally,
The gross hand of the clumsiest theft;
If still at his feet, the sad demon of Glory,
Whose yet Star screens the Nemesis there,
You trail foul the white mantle which Story,
Long proud, deemed you worthy to wear.
Whose yet Star screens the Nemesis there,
You trail foul the white mantle which Story,
Long proud, deemed you worthy to wear.
Have him drink, each Oaf, till he drains it,
The sad rue of your rank abuse,
Till he purge, where your grim lip stains it,
The white, passioned font of the Truce.
The sad rue of your rank abuse,
Till he purge, where your grim lip stains it,
The white, passioned font of the Truce.
And you spill ’gainst some Day that darkens,
The sweet blood which more blood must cleanse,
To appease her, who evermore hearkens,
With an ear ’bove all mortal mens’—
The sweet blood which more blood must cleanse,
To appease her, who evermore hearkens,
With an ear ’bove all mortal mens’—
Whose hand, tho’ thy now scarce regards it,
Nay, with brute challenge her great bond bails,
’Gainst some audit, how so she retards it,
Holds still those immutable scales,
Whose tallies, past mortal doubting,
Shall yet flame their etern script,
Set forth b’yond what small gods flouting,
Their word in your heart’s-blood dipp’d.
Nay, with brute challenge her great bond bails,
’Gainst some audit, how so she retards it,
Holds still those immutable scales,
Whose tallies, past mortal doubting,
Shall yet flame their etern script,
Set forth b’yond what small gods flouting,
Their word in your heart’s-blood dipp’d.
For out of the sad soil reeking,
Unstilled while the blood-rain falls,
Even there, goes a great Wrong seeking,
From Camp and from pesthouse calls.
Unstilled while the blood-rain falls,
Even there, goes a great Wrong seeking,
From Camp and from pesthouse calls.
Seeking—wondering, though waiting,
Why so patient the ordering Stars;
All-wisdomed Wills why so lating
The Just which no time-let bars.
Why so patient the ordering Stars;
All-wisdomed Wills why so lating
The Just which no time-let bars.
Seeking—nay, all but finds it,
In the path you must now pursue,
The scourge, where some grim Fate winds it
With her law of the outraged True;
In the path you must now pursue,
The scourge, where some grim Fate winds it
With her law of the outraged True;
In the course now blind-blazed before you,
Where, still warning her augurs stand,
Invoking the love she bore you,
For stay of your ruthless hand.
Where, still warning her augurs stand,
Invoking the love she bore you,
For stay of your ruthless hand.
Oh yes, you shall ill do without them,
Those fools his rash fancy drew;
But then, shall your conscience not doubt them,
Shall they not lack faith in you?
Those fools his rash fancy drew;
But then, shall your conscience not doubt them,
Shall they not lack faith in you?
Shall then not the dead Days taunt you,
Break their graves, and, with wild surmise,
Fierce-ghosting the Coming haunt you,
Ensanguine the placid skies?
Break their graves, and, with wild surmise,
Fierce-ghosting the Coming haunt you,
Ensanguine the placid skies?
Oh, yes; Come Heaven or Hell, you shall need them,
Where Unjust has so monst’red the score,
Her purgers-in-fee, ere you breed them,
Till Shame be your harlot no more!
Where Unjust has so monst’red the score,
Her purgers-in-fee, ere you breed them,
Till Shame be your harlot no more!
WAR.
By his blood-red furrow, as of yore—
The fierce acre he tends, since, her theme in chief,
Story stained with him her leaf,
Nay, since when, come not-yet of age,
She but babbled her page—
Chance, long bygones before—
Heeled and flush, in his bruiser’s trim,
Howe’er wistful at core,
Walketh the War.
Never a laugh dares sport with him,
Only anon the luridest smile
Rallies his gloom awhile,
Ere it hang as before.
The fierce acre he tends, since, her theme in chief,
Story stained with him her leaf,
Nay, since when, come not-yet of age,
She but babbled her page—
Chance, long bygones before—
Heeled and flush, in his bruiser’s trim,
Howe’er wistful at core,
Walketh the War.
Never a laugh dares sport with him,
Only anon the luridest smile
Rallies his gloom awhile,
Ere it hang as before.
By the reek of his furrow—
Those dank pastures, whose soil,
Moistened by ages, augur his toil;
Which his scourge-hands have fed,
Whose come-up and store
Have quickened and bred
On his innings of yore,
On the blood-sweat and broil—
Still walketh the War;
Broad-cast flings his dripping grain,
Lest, unpurged of tare and weed,
God’s dear harvest come in vain,
While the Devil nurse his breed.
Those dank pastures, whose soil,
Moistened by ages, augur his toil;
Which his scourge-hands have fed,
Whose come-up and store
Have quickened and bred
On his innings of yore,
On the blood-sweat and broil—
Still walketh the War;
Broad-cast flings his dripping grain,
Lest, unpurged of tare and weed,
God’s dear harvest come in vain,
While the Devil nurse his breed.
Lest, Earth’s Mighties, sick for more
Lack of grist to heap their store,
Sigh that Luck should be so out;
Why the slut so meanly heed
The sore measure of their need;
What blind Fates may be about?
Lack of grist to heap their store,
Sigh that Luck should be so out;
Why the slut so meanly heed
The sore measure of their need;
What blind Fates may be about?
While, perchance, the grim sower there,
Fierce and blood-strewing Mars,
Uneasy his honors wear,
Inglorious, the ancient scars,
And his weed-hands, the plain and dim,
Be not thought the husbands of Him,
He, who gathereth the stars.
Fierce and blood-strewing Mars,
Uneasy his honors wear,
Inglorious, the ancient scars,
And his weed-hands, the plain and dim,
Be not thought the husbands of Him,
He, who gathereth the stars.
Lest his tithe and offering, the War,
From a heart, thought inconstant and meek,
Appease not The Evermore;
And, in their hallowed and upward seek,
Less pious now than before,
The rue and the languishing grue,
The fall-away reek of the blood-laden stew,
Hit not His nostril, while gentler strife,
Cravens the breed of the eager life,
And, unearned, unworthy, her sober ease,
She yeaneth the Peace.
From a heart, thought inconstant and meek,
Appease not The Evermore;
And, in their hallowed and upward seek,
Less pious now than before,
The rue and the languishing grue,
The fall-away reek of the blood-laden stew,
Hit not His nostril, while gentler strife,
Cravens the breed of the eager life,
And, unearned, unworthy, her sober ease,
She yeaneth the Peace.
And still, by his furrow, lusting and grim,
While his seed-hand drips,
Sowing and reaping, tending his chore,
As he waileth his hymn—
That fierce dirge evermore
Blown hoarse from his lips—
Towers the War.
But who be the council and senate of him?
Who be his teamsmen, where be the whips?
There in the ghost-light, taunting and strange?
There where all visions pale them and range?
There where all time-light, tho’ vaunting its star,
The hushes come numbing, so voiceless and far?
While his seed-hand drips,
Sowing and reaping, tending his chore,
As he waileth his hymn—
That fierce dirge evermore
Blown hoarse from his lips—
Towers the War.
But who be the council and senate of him?
Who be his teamsmen, where be the whips?
There in the ghost-light, taunting and strange?
There where all visions pale them and range?
There where all time-light, tho’ vaunting its star,
The hushes come numbing, so voiceless and far?
Yet there, even there, evermore,
Since first streameth a dawn,
Hardy and wild, tho’ ungrown,
Tolling his death-song, muffling their lore,
The brave lyrics of life,
Speeds not the strife,
Stalks not the War?
As he moody fulfills those inscrutable Wills—
At one hand, the Spirit’s, on the other, the Sod’s,
That anointed of Gods;
Here, that fierce purger, the Truth’s,
There, the healing, the infinite Ruth’s,
Divinely at odds—
Those miracled Twain,
Deep-twinning, past name,
From whose life-streaming well,
Whose concept and womb,
Floweth birth-song and knell,
Issue cradle and tomb.
Since first streameth a dawn,
Hardy and wild, tho’ ungrown,
Tolling his death-song, muffling their lore,
The brave lyrics of life,
Speeds not the strife,
Stalks not the War?
As he moody fulfills those inscrutable Wills—
At one hand, the Spirit’s, on the other, the Sod’s,
That anointed of Gods;
Here, that fierce purger, the Truth’s,
There, the healing, the infinite Ruth’s,
Divinely at odds—
Those miracled Twain,
Deep-twinning, past name,
From whose life-streaming well,
Whose concept and womb,
Floweth birth-song and knell,
Issue cradle and tomb.
Here and there, evermore,
Since first lifted a prime,
And mortal with him,
Father Hazy, old Time,
Untokened and dim,
From the brood-mists of yore,
His chief breather was bore;
Craving and unsated still,
Feedeth the War.
On one hand, the God-will,
On the other, the Man’s,
Bounden a chooser, or liege to the chance?
Who shall assign it? Each where it fall?
Prove the parts from the Whole?
How may they plead—Doer, and deed?
Response, ’gainst the Call?
Is there a name for the appeal and the claim,
From the shaping to Shaper,
The Judger that scans,
While dim Fates yet fulfill,
Exalting ordain,
Thro’ the stress and the pain,
That high something, the Will,
Bid it rise to the answer,
Tho’ one with the Plan’s?
Since first lifted a prime,
And mortal with him,
Father Hazy, old Time,
Untokened and dim,
From the brood-mists of yore,
His chief breather was bore;
Craving and unsated still,
Feedeth the War.
On one hand, the God-will,
On the other, the Man’s,
Bounden a chooser, or liege to the chance?
Who shall assign it? Each where it fall?
Prove the parts from the Whole?
How may they plead—Doer, and deed?
Response, ’gainst the Call?
Is there a name for the appeal and the claim,
From the shaping to Shaper,
The Judger that scans,
While dim Fates yet fulfill,
Exalting ordain,
Thro’ the stress and the pain,
That high something, the Will,
Bid it rise to the answer,
Tho’ one with the Plan’s?
Ay,—shall the soul not be held to the vast reply?
Or, shall its dower of light,
Widowed of wonder, sad mate with the Night,
Like what fierce-flaunting Sun’s,
When its pomp is done,
Fail him and die?
Be the soul, its selfhood a dream,
But some phantom-fed gleam?
Past yon torches that burn,
Unbarred may no high suit go?
But beggared, unmorrowed, never to know,
Unvisioned etern,
Behold not, with humbled, tho’ how larger eyes,
The Fountains that rise?
Or, shall its dower of light,
Widowed of wonder, sad mate with the Night,
Like what fierce-flaunting Sun’s,
When its pomp is done,
Fail him and die?
Be the soul, its selfhood a dream,
But some phantom-fed gleam?
Past yon torches that burn,
Unbarred may no high suit go?
But beggared, unmorrowed, never to know,
Unvisioned etern,
Behold not, with humbled, tho’ how larger eyes,
The Fountains that rise?
CLIO.
From out my tossed and wayward page,
Where yet to prompt it, broad and clear,
God and demon struggling wage—
Thoughts of hope gainst things of Fear—
Something lifts: How should I know
Why or whence, save that in light,
Above my monitors of boding Night—
Tally-hands that warning draw,
With my good Augurs, joint indite,
Checked, but sure, the founded law—
It gently calls in thy behoof,
Rounding my unfinished verse,
Clinching, as from pith of proof,
What the lines but faint rehearse,
While, to deep tho’ far-off chords,
It voiceth low these simple words:
Where yet to prompt it, broad and clear,
God and demon struggling wage—
Thoughts of hope gainst things of Fear—
Something lifts: How should I know
Why or whence, save that in light,
Above my monitors of boding Night—
Tally-hands that warning draw,
With my good Augurs, joint indite,
Checked, but sure, the founded law—
It gently calls in thy behoof,
Rounding my unfinished verse,
Clinching, as from pith of proof,
What the lines but faint rehearse,
While, to deep tho’ far-off chords,
It voiceth low these simple words:
“Trust no foul, to frame best end,
Lest some taint the high Stars rue,
Dark infect all fresher True,
Subtly foil its yet portend;
And, twice blind with brute unheed,
Life’s close cypher harder read:
Lest unto all after time,
With the burden of my rhyme,
The unholy jar do foully blend,
Grudge and mar its noblest chime:
Burden, with whose nameless Deep,
Tho’ sad paths dim courses keep,
Yet repeats, invoking still,
Anthemed, the responsive will,
Suffered federate with the Prime.”
Lest some taint the high Stars rue,
Dark infect all fresher True,
Subtly foil its yet portend;
And, twice blind with brute unheed,
Life’s close cypher harder read:
Lest unto all after time,
With the burden of my rhyme,
The unholy jar do foully blend,
Grudge and mar its noblest chime:
Burden, with whose nameless Deep,
Tho’ sad paths dim courses keep,
Yet repeats, invoking still,
Anthemed, the responsive will,
Suffered federate with the Prime.”
“Have thy ways confess me just,
Lest the Fate, whose hand unfolds
Devious what the world-lust holds,
Shut out all bound twixt thee and dust:
Lest large things, that she did write,
Tricked of faith and worthy scope—
Hence, unmusicked of the Hope—
Juggling blot my tablet’s white;
Nay, in her despair to shape the Soul,
She report ye foul, and tear my Scroll.”
Lest the Fate, whose hand unfolds
Devious what the world-lust holds,
Shut out all bound twixt thee and dust:
Lest large things, that she did write,
Tricked of faith and worthy scope—
Hence, unmusicked of the Hope—
Juggling blot my tablet’s white;
Nay, in her despair to shape the Soul,
She report ye foul, and tear my Scroll.”
AVE PAX.
From forth the hidden, brooding heart of Nature lifts a sigh,
A wordless, dim beseech, as if of tremulous Life,
A heave that groaning speaks, withal: “And what am I,
And all my stars, and myriad thing, and Breath arife
As with some doom that hears not, some blind call to be?
Shall my mute yearning ever rend the pall of Night?
This bond be lifted, and those wills be free?
My heart swell holy t’ward some only Light?”
A wordless, dim beseech, as if of tremulous Life,
A heave that groaning speaks, withal: “And what am I,
And all my stars, and myriad thing, and Breath arife
As with some doom that hears not, some blind call to be?
Shall my mute yearning ever rend the pall of Night?
This bond be lifted, and those wills be free?
My heart swell holy t’ward some only Light?”
“And shall my pains unburden, some glad voice be mine?
The feuds surcease them—the brutal onset and the bitter stress?
This chalice sweeten, flow with heavenly wine?
My brood uncurse me, who how fain would bless,
Till, O, some angeled Pity from these bowels leap,
A sweeter wisdom of all ills make ease,
And those dreams fulfil them that fond-haunt my sleep:
Shall ever on my sore, o’erwatched brow sit promised Peace?”
The feuds surcease them—the brutal onset and the bitter stress?
This chalice sweeten, flow with heavenly wine?
My brood uncurse me, who how fain would bless,
Till, O, some angeled Pity from these bowels leap,
A sweeter wisdom of all ills make ease,
And those dreams fulfil them that fond-haunt my sleep:
Shall ever on my sore, o’erwatched brow sit promised Peace?”
And out of stillier Deeps—unfathomed, shrouded than the tomb-hush came—
A Vision rose upon her stony, sad, beblinded eyes:—
A passioned Shrine, where smiling lay, in chastening flame,
The white child, Truth—a seraph winging, ’gainst its mighty Rise,
A Vision rose upon her stony, sad, beblinded eyes:—
A passioned Shrine, where smiling lay, in chastening flame,
The white child, Truth—a seraph winging, ’gainst its mighty Rise,
Past Pain and Evil, all fierce brood they bore;
While Justice in the holy fire saints her purging rod
For infinite Ruth: But ’bove them all, in state no other heaven wore,
Abounding Patience sat, in likeness of unutterable God!
While Justice in the holy fire saints her purging rod
For infinite Ruth: But ’bove them all, in state no other heaven wore,
Abounding Patience sat, in likeness of unutterable God!
ALPHA.
Primer than all the Ages,
One with the Evermore,
Key to Life’s sybil pages,
Prophet whose only lore,
One with the Evermore,
Key to Life’s sybil pages,
Prophet whose only lore,
Time, tho’ he muse the Writing—
Why so crabbed the cypher run,
Shall yet word to the heart’s inviting
Clear-copied than myriad Sun.
* * * * * * * *
Vaster than all relation,
Divine, tho’ mid Dark he grew,
Lest, paltering the fierce negation,
Unblest come the only True!
Why so crabbed the cypher run,
Shall yet word to the heart’s inviting
Clear-copied than myriad Sun.
* * * * * * * *
Vaster than all relation,
Divine, tho’ mid Dark he grew,
Lest, paltering the fierce negation,
Unblest come the only True!
OMEGA.
The goal is ever; all things tend;
Faiths must waver; Love shall mend;
Never issue come to rest—
Earthen course, or starry span,
Will of God, or heart of man—
Pillowed not upon His breast.
Faiths must waver; Love shall mend;
Never issue come to rest—
Earthen course, or starry span,
Will of God, or heart of man—
Pillowed not upon His breast.
GREATNESS.
O, thou, the fierce englamored,
Hence, at never cease, invoked of man,
Who, in the vast procession of the sybil days,
Holds up the light he fain would follow, but may not conceive;
Whose boundless charter and whose nameless goal outpasseth Time:—
Hast thou, on sufferance of thy liege, the Truth
The Same, unwearied on whose fiat waits the mutinous Dark,
Whose breath, withal, fans bright the spheres,
Concords the music of their millioned primes;
Whose utter Essence, tho’ in substance clad,
Yon skies contain not, tho’ the heart may hold:—
Hast thou, the warrant winked-at, yet the trust, supreme,
On behalf of privilege that might all beseech—
Some love past limit, save its ever self—
Hast thou, thus, wandered from those shores afar,
Thy starry synods and the hosting lights,
To meet thine image in these mortal ways,
So fangled, paltried, and so bitter small—
Thine mighty image, which no shadow frets—
Such slave to glozing aspect and rude things of Here,
So pent in durance to the marble law, whose
nurse are grim coercion and the bloody hand?
But, shalt thou not change it, till its lines enlarge,
False take-offs dwindle, and their craft stand out,
Nor mate vain-glory for vile thrift of both,
And fierce engendering of their dwarfish breed?
Shalt thou not change it, let Fame’s note come true;
For her brazen trumpet the small silvery flute,
Which draws its heart-strains from the pith of Just,
And winds accordant with the patient soul?
Shall its gloried flame not whiter burn,
The snuff and dross attract no more,
Set lurid off thy streaming torch,
Whose glow and essence than the sun-paths fed,
Outpeers the lustre of their myriad fount,
The solemn, fiery-bearing, the uncompassed Night?
Hence, at never cease, invoked of man,
Who, in the vast procession of the sybil days,
Holds up the light he fain would follow, but may not conceive;
Whose boundless charter and whose nameless goal outpasseth Time:—
Hast thou, on sufferance of thy liege, the Truth
The Same, unwearied on whose fiat waits the mutinous Dark,
Whose breath, withal, fans bright the spheres,
Concords the music of their millioned primes;
Whose utter Essence, tho’ in substance clad,
Yon skies contain not, tho’ the heart may hold:—
Hast thou, the warrant winked-at, yet the trust, supreme,
On behalf of privilege that might all beseech—
Some love past limit, save its ever self—
Hast thou, thus, wandered from those shores afar,
Thy starry synods and the hosting lights,
To meet thine image in these mortal ways,
So fangled, paltried, and so bitter small—
Thine mighty image, which no shadow frets—
Such slave to glozing aspect and rude things of Here,
So pent in durance to the marble law, whose
nurse are grim coercion and the bloody hand?
But, shalt thou not change it, till its lines enlarge,
False take-offs dwindle, and their craft stand out,
Nor mate vain-glory for vile thrift of both,
And fierce engendering of their dwarfish breed?
Shalt thou not change it, let Fame’s note come true;
For her brazen trumpet the small silvery flute,
Which draws its heart-strains from the pith of Just,
And winds accordant with the patient soul?
Shall its gloried flame not whiter burn,
The snuff and dross attract no more,
Set lurid off thy streaming torch,
Whose glow and essence than the sun-paths fed,
Outpeers the lustre of their myriad fount,
The solemn, fiery-bearing, the uncompassed Night?
Yea, shalt thou not change it, bid thine features grow,
The lines more matching, scope and plan more true,
Dispel refraction and all hemming False,
Which, girt with mortal tribulation, hang
Their warping shadows twixt the Light and thee?
Shall Great be greater not, tho’ it lowly comes,
The reward o’ertook not ere the Right say well?
Shalt thou sink hellward not the sorry law,
Which bids rude Strength—be it brain, or brawn’s—
Sit, lofty scorning, by the counseling heart,
So unaccompanied place its monstrous tribute at vain
Feet of pride, and brutish idols of the adoring sense,
On specious plea of covetous ambition—all its rage to have and wield—
Give wage to sorrow than be frankly served
By lasting wisdom and the patient hope,
While Policy and Smug Expedience wink Fresh Cues at all?
The lines more matching, scope and plan more true,
Dispel refraction and all hemming False,
Which, girt with mortal tribulation, hang
Their warping shadows twixt the Light and thee?
Shall Great be greater not, tho’ it lowly comes,
The reward o’ertook not ere the Right say well?
Shalt thou sink hellward not the sorry law,
Which bids rude Strength—be it brain, or brawn’s—
Sit, lofty scorning, by the counseling heart,
So unaccompanied place its monstrous tribute at vain
Feet of pride, and brutish idols of the adoring sense,
On specious plea of covetous ambition—all its rage to have and wield—
Give wage to sorrow than be frankly served
By lasting wisdom and the patient hope,
While Policy and Smug Expedience wink Fresh Cues at all?
Shall thy fair likeness not refigured speak,
Each trait come moulded t’ward this crowning True—
That, Mind, the mightiest, shall outsee itself,
No gift, not servant, round more full the Soul,
Nor in the bounteous equipment find
The meanest haughty crest, nay tricksiest spur upon that crest,
Whereon to hang the damned assurance of a law
Exempting answer to the gauging Just;
But from the grace and undeserved oblation draw,
Bring heavenly down—whether in man or men,
In gathered Nations, or the singler few—
Fresh-purposed to the will, fresh trusting
And sustaining there, the guardian angel of humility,
The lifting spirit of the thankful heart?
Each trait come moulded t’ward this crowning True—
That, Mind, the mightiest, shall outsee itself,
No gift, not servant, round more full the Soul,
Nor in the bounteous equipment find
The meanest haughty crest, nay tricksiest spur upon that crest,
Whereon to hang the damned assurance of a law
Exempting answer to the gauging Just;
But from the grace and undeserved oblation draw,
Bring heavenly down—whether in man or men,
In gathered Nations, or the singler few—
Fresh-purposed to the will, fresh trusting
And sustaining there, the guardian angel of humility,
The lifting spirit of the thankful heart?
Shalt thou not make it goodly clear,
’Tis not Endeavor which alone achieves,
Save as it aim averts not, but for grace upholds,
Crowns true some spirit, would set struggling forth,
At vast contention and in emulous pride,
Yon speechless comment which the Hopes give out,
For fresh construction of the rigid text,
The nice enactment, tho’ dispiteous code,
Whose leased expression and whose outward sum
Are Nature’s equities and ways about?
’Tis not Endeavor which alone achieves,
Save as it aim averts not, but for grace upholds,
Crowns true some spirit, would set struggling forth,
At vast contention and in emulous pride,
Yon speechless comment which the Hopes give out,
For fresh construction of the rigid text,
The nice enactment, tho’ dispiteous code,
Whose leased expression and whose outward sum
Are Nature’s equities and ways about?
Ay, shall thus, fresh copied not, thine image shine;
Shalt thou not thus acquit thyself, re-message Faith,
The act affirm her, and the daily thought,
Full-knowing that her life lies there, and only hostage unto groping man?
Shalt thou not thus draw gracious near,
Till all hearts enfold thee, and, in their rude despite,
The scoring Fates cry wondering out,
“Our worst is done; there is now no more;
Our record writes itself, to justice dedicate
And happy Good.”
If not—alas, misprision and the futile trust!
If not—if Destiny still a boggler stand,
Knows Hence from Hither, nor which way were best,
If yet the rude purveyor, Time,
Finds in the vast commission and despatch of him,
In his prospects and his comings-on,
The near or far, unfeatured still that dream of thee,
No Perfect ever, scarce thy better there,
But that blots shall lasting stain it, give it
Fresh relief, traduce the glory he had meant
Hold forth; if yet the Vain come worshipped,
And the Brute must thrive, more subtly nourished,
But its breed the same, while the Free,
Tho’ of outward credit, wear a golden clog,
Pollutes his title, and defaults the heart:
In few, if Fact be consecrate, the Brain its God,
No Faith to hallow, save what Reason hold,
Rank-rooting never in no soil but Self,
Till Hope, an exile—say she breathe at all—
Strangered and out of rights, eats her own heart,
In weary banishment and quail of man:—
If this be so, if that could be—were it better not,
Thus tricked and thwarted of thy clearer self,
This Present, pathless, with worse maze before—
Were it better not, white days should cease them,
And the Stars to roll, invite disruption, and, thro’ wrack
Of things, with leveling Chaos plead afresh some chance
For nobler being and the worthier life?
Or, say, that doubting vastly his at all retrieve,
Since still petitioned on crude lines of This,
Grudged, narrowed, and beset with voidless happenings of the mortal hour:
Say that:
Hence, judging nothing blessed that he might contrive,
And, lest things that had been from their graves stand forth,
Teem their once imperfections, all infirm they bore,
Yea, on mere vision of the dread event,
Cry wildly out against the Call,
That, taunting, drew them from Death’s perfect shade,
To stalk once more, at dull repeat,
Or fevered rush—one goal for both—
Their weary paces in some time-bound Here,
Its hope unpremised, and no Hence made out:
Say that—all that—and, were it better not, were it not wise,
If yet so judging from what lay at hand,
Such guess to go by and provide a cue—
Were it better not, were it not well,
Might faith not do it, and the sense subscribe,
Let it come to this, if words may broach it,
May bear out the thought: to this—that man call down,
Call clamorous down, as only umpire twixt
All What and Not; twixt blind Reliance—
Her yet remnant there—her fond contention,
And the crucial Fact; as sole unraveler
Of thick webs of False; for lasting clearance
Of the perjured Fates, that usurp thin image
To the trick of True—Call wildly down,
All hearts clean emptied of their bane, the pride—
If Miracle knew how; might holily, not grossly, do it—
No breather left not, whom the riddance bore
Not in its sorry and unhallowed stead—
Crude absence presenced, and new light let in—
Some sacred, lofty, and prophetic strain,
Which so should dare it, and,
Which, curb to Fear, did dread no Judgment,
Not appealed with this—that each cause that
Drew him, and each star that led,
Must find him shelter, nay, close-challenged, stand
His clear accessory before the fact,
Like found, in common, with indicted man:—
Which so should dare—
All this premise yielded, and its case at rest—
Call fondly down,
While the infinite Mercies, sitting wide ’bove All,
Did, scruteless Justicers, take up the claim,
Which Pain and Sorrow for the world-heart draws,
And, which, past all precedent, would thus call down—
Ere Grace pronounce it, ere its fiat fall,
Against some boundless Issue, some yet Pure toward,
Unstained, surely, by gross touch of him,
Man’s wayward intimate, sore licensed Time,
For his purgation and clear suit of all—
Would dare call down—yea, righteous down—
All breathers joining, of a mind for once,
Accord achieved, and a truce at last,
No thought so common, nor no wish so near
As that this scene be halted, and the long act done,
Its show a burden, and its flaunt a woe,—
Call fondly, wildly, tho’ how vainly, down,
The long remitted, yet etern withheld,
While boundless Loving by great Patience sits—
Twin-seed and concept of the boweled Ruth,
That, sainting, quickens to immaculate God—
Would yet call down, call monstrous down,
The infinite respited, his aye unushered
And unthundered Doom?
Shalt thou not thus acquit thyself, re-message Faith,
The act affirm her, and the daily thought,
Full-knowing that her life lies there, and only hostage unto groping man?
Shalt thou not thus draw gracious near,
Till all hearts enfold thee, and, in their rude despite,
The scoring Fates cry wondering out,
“Our worst is done; there is now no more;
Our record writes itself, to justice dedicate
And happy Good.”
If not—alas, misprision and the futile trust!
If not—if Destiny still a boggler stand,
Knows Hence from Hither, nor which way were best,
If yet the rude purveyor, Time,
Finds in the vast commission and despatch of him,
In his prospects and his comings-on,
The near or far, unfeatured still that dream of thee,
No Perfect ever, scarce thy better there,
But that blots shall lasting stain it, give it
Fresh relief, traduce the glory he had meant
Hold forth; if yet the Vain come worshipped,
And the Brute must thrive, more subtly nourished,
But its breed the same, while the Free,
Tho’ of outward credit, wear a golden clog,
Pollutes his title, and defaults the heart:
In few, if Fact be consecrate, the Brain its God,
No Faith to hallow, save what Reason hold,
Rank-rooting never in no soil but Self,
Till Hope, an exile—say she breathe at all—
Strangered and out of rights, eats her own heart,
In weary banishment and quail of man:—
If this be so, if that could be—were it better not,
Thus tricked and thwarted of thy clearer self,
This Present, pathless, with worse maze before—
Were it better not, white days should cease them,
And the Stars to roll, invite disruption, and, thro’ wrack
Of things, with leveling Chaos plead afresh some chance
For nobler being and the worthier life?
Or, say, that doubting vastly his at all retrieve,
Since still petitioned on crude lines of This,
Grudged, narrowed, and beset with voidless happenings of the mortal hour:
Say that:
Hence, judging nothing blessed that he might contrive,
And, lest things that had been from their graves stand forth,
Teem their once imperfections, all infirm they bore,
Yea, on mere vision of the dread event,
Cry wildly out against the Call,
That, taunting, drew them from Death’s perfect shade,
To stalk once more, at dull repeat,
Or fevered rush—one goal for both—
Their weary paces in some time-bound Here,
Its hope unpremised, and no Hence made out:
Say that—all that—and, were it better not, were it not wise,
If yet so judging from what lay at hand,
Such guess to go by and provide a cue—
Were it better not, were it not well,
Might faith not do it, and the sense subscribe,
Let it come to this, if words may broach it,
May bear out the thought: to this—that man call down,
Call clamorous down, as only umpire twixt
All What and Not; twixt blind Reliance—
Her yet remnant there—her fond contention,
And the crucial Fact; as sole unraveler
Of thick webs of False; for lasting clearance
Of the perjured Fates, that usurp thin image
To the trick of True—Call wildly down,
All hearts clean emptied of their bane, the pride—
If Miracle knew how; might holily, not grossly, do it—
No breather left not, whom the riddance bore
Not in its sorry and unhallowed stead—
Crude absence presenced, and new light let in—
Some sacred, lofty, and prophetic strain,
Which so should dare it, and,
Which, curb to Fear, did dread no Judgment,
Not appealed with this—that each cause that
Drew him, and each star that led,
Must find him shelter, nay, close-challenged, stand
His clear accessory before the fact,
Like found, in common, with indicted man:—
Which so should dare—
All this premise yielded, and its case at rest—
Call fondly down,
While the infinite Mercies, sitting wide ’bove All,
Did, scruteless Justicers, take up the claim,
Which Pain and Sorrow for the world-heart draws,
And, which, past all precedent, would thus call down—
Ere Grace pronounce it, ere its fiat fall,
Against some boundless Issue, some yet Pure toward,
Unstained, surely, by gross touch of him,
Man’s wayward intimate, sore licensed Time,
For his purgation and clear suit of all—
Would dare call down—yea, righteous down—
All breathers joining, of a mind for once,
Accord achieved, and a truce at last,
No thought so common, nor no wish so near
As that this scene be halted, and the long act done,
Its show a burden, and its flaunt a woe,—
Call fondly, wildly, tho’ how vainly, down,
The long remitted, yet etern withheld,
While boundless Loving by great Patience sits—
Twin-seed and concept of the boweled Ruth,
That, sainting, quickens to immaculate God—
Would yet call down, call monstrous down,
The infinite respited, his aye unushered
And unthundered Doom?
PETER CRONJE.
Paardeberg, Feb., 1900.
Unto the templed haunts of her that sits,
And to acclaim of echoes writes the stirring deeds of men—
Each noisy plaudit that reverberate flits
Across the tablet’s white, to never lift its breath again.
And to acclaim of echoes writes the stirring deeds of men—
Each noisy plaudit that reverberate flits
Across the tablet’s white, to never lift its breath again.
Each solemn impress, too, the burin graves,
And clear and fast, to living strokes, the stone-page holds
’Gainst his rude blot whose gulf enwaves
With sweeping crest all flash and strain of baser moulds.
And clear and fast, to living strokes, the stone-page holds
’Gainst his rude blot whose gulf enwaves
With sweeping crest all flash and strain of baser moulds.
To her who wreathes the Days, their laurel twines,
Or, decks no brow Fame’s love to tell,
Came wisest Clio, Story’s far-recording Muse,
A page in hand, whose bitter brief but glowing lines
Each trophied shaft, that rose, made prouder swell,
Blaze fresh its graphic lore with nobler hues.
Or, decks no brow Fame’s love to tell,
Came wisest Clio, Story’s far-recording Muse,
A page in hand, whose bitter brief but glowing lines
Each trophied shaft, that rose, made prouder swell,
Blaze fresh its graphic lore with nobler hues.
To her,—this word on lip: “Build Sister now past shock of Days my latest shrine;
Based build it past their dim beseech,
Who up thro’ Time wan ghost-hands reach,
To slur with doubt his fair’st design:
Be yare! The Heavens lo, for tribute pine!”
Based build it past their dim beseech,
Who up thro’ Time wan ghost-hands reach,
To slur with doubt his fair’st design:
Be yare! The Heavens lo, for tribute pine!”
And mark, they pact! ’Fore Chancel-bar the high vows plight:
Ordained the Altar, while uprose through flame,
Clear-set ’gainst unspent yet and brooding night
The sweet, wild star—the beacon flash of Cronje’s name.
Ordained the Altar, while uprose through flame,
Clear-set ’gainst unspent yet and brooding night
The sweet, wild star—the beacon flash of Cronje’s name.
CHRISTIAN DE WET.[2]
Fame long took wary note of him,
So did proud England, too, who, from his hand,
In the blood-red, flowery vintage of her land,
Has drained his pledges to their bitter brim,
Till, within the fiery cups, well-nigh an Empire swim,
Staggers for sure foot, wonders at that dizzy head,
What craze infatuate demons in yon soft spot bred,
Whence this vile feeling in each once firm limb?
So did proud England, too, who, from his hand,
In the blood-red, flowery vintage of her land,
Has drained his pledges to their bitter brim,
Till, within the fiery cups, well-nigh an Empire swim,
Staggers for sure foot, wonders at that dizzy head,
What craze infatuate demons in yon soft spot bred,
Whence this vile feeling in each once firm limb?
What worked such odious rouse in one so free?
Made this man loathe her, so defy all fate,
That in his eye the price has fallen of all things but Hate,
Wide Earth, unregioned, where her realms not be?
Cries here not, summoning, out, like from some Fury’s song,
For ’ts dreadful due, some fierce, intolerable Wrong?
Made this man loathe her, so defy all fate,
That in his eye the price has fallen of all things but Hate,
Wide Earth, unregioned, where her realms not be?
Cries here not, summoning, out, like from some Fury’s song,
For ’ts dreadful due, some fierce, intolerable Wrong?
OOM PAUL.
This is he: the same, who on the warrant of a man
Stood up, gave Fortune battle; to her bitterest face
Cried out, “I’ll front your minions ere their slave-hand trace
On free men’s backs, in sorry writing as no other can,
The crooked cypher which smug worldlings plan,
Expound, to key and color of their lust-fed wills,
As the all-in-all a tardy Destiny fulfills,
By its star, ports safe, ’gainst stress of man,
Her, hereto, drifting and unruddered van.
Stood up, gave Fortune battle; to her bitterest face
Cried out, “I’ll front your minions ere their slave-hand trace
On free men’s backs, in sorry writing as no other can,
The crooked cypher which smug worldlings plan,
Expound, to key and color of their lust-fed wills,
As the all-in-all a tardy Destiny fulfills,
By its star, ports safe, ’gainst stress of man,
Her, hereto, drifting and unruddered van.
The same, who had his breeding at their rude expense,
Whose hardy training, to the pithy core,
So took, each fated tutor wonders evermore
Who wed such aptness to mere mortal sense.
In the gross, a bear; broad streak of fox; unsaintly, grim;
Withal, what Titan’s mettle gave its heat to him,
What Spark re-tempered, that may ne’er grow cold,
This hero’s substance from a peasant’s mold?
Whose hardy training, to the pithy core,
So took, each fated tutor wonders evermore
Who wed such aptness to mere mortal sense.
In the gross, a bear; broad streak of fox; unsaintly, grim;
Withal, what Titan’s mettle gave its heat to him,
What Spark re-tempered, that may ne’er grow cold,
This hero’s substance from a peasant’s mold?
CECIL RHODES.
Equipped, who doubts, above Life’s common leave,
Where, privy to her council, mind and will
Bar lesser men, past plea of question, do fulfill
The searchless Fates—What did this man achieve
That Hope should stand deject, should at his parting grieve?
What bated sum of human ill
Files now, along with Wrong, its lessened bill?
What brutish yokes less hardened cleave?
How did he ease them—with what large conceive?
What forces muster ’gainst the Dark, but their array
Broke from the leadership of trusting Day,
Gave faction life, grew to command,
And, cozening, won him from the straighter way—
The same, in whose plain view yon heavens stand,
Rear wide this word, tho’ blurred with Dust,
“That truly great must first be just.”
Where, privy to her council, mind and will
Bar lesser men, past plea of question, do fulfill
The searchless Fates—What did this man achieve
That Hope should stand deject, should at his parting grieve?
What bated sum of human ill
Files now, along with Wrong, its lessened bill?
What brutish yokes less hardened cleave?
How did he ease them—with what large conceive?
What forces muster ’gainst the Dark, but their array
Broke from the leadership of trusting Day,
Gave faction life, grew to command,
And, cozening, won him from the straighter way—
The same, in whose plain view yon heavens stand,
Rear wide this word, tho’ blurred with Dust,
“That truly great must first be just.”
CHAMBERLAIN.
Stalk Right, from crafty cover of the Might;
Commend your passes with the opportune;
Expound this lesson, never learnt too soon—
To rate all vision by the outward sight;
Hold all truth misty, save yon tricksy light,
Which fatuous dazzles from the specious star,
Where worldly holdings, hedged with mortgage, are,
Each brazen title which still suffered write
Such scribes, rude-figured, on the scroll of Fate:
All this—and yet, who doubts but they fulfill,
Tho’ at sorry single, some more general Will,
Hold dumb intelligence with Wisdom’s state;
That, tho’ locked in cypher yet the issue read,
Their blatant faction, ’gainst some halcyon date,
Works out, affirming, whence they silent speed,
His Council perfect, with no voice at odds,
The boundless findings of all-patient God’s?
Commend your passes with the opportune;
Expound this lesson, never learnt too soon—
To rate all vision by the outward sight;
Hold all truth misty, save yon tricksy light,
Which fatuous dazzles from the specious star,
Where worldly holdings, hedged with mortgage, are,
Each brazen title which still suffered write
Such scribes, rude-figured, on the scroll of Fate:
All this—and yet, who doubts but they fulfill,
Tho’ at sorry single, some more general Will,
Hold dumb intelligence with Wisdom’s state;
That, tho’ locked in cypher yet the issue read,
Their blatant faction, ’gainst some halcyon date,
Works out, affirming, whence they silent speed,
His Council perfect, with no voice at odds,
The boundless findings of all-patient God’s?