TWO olive-branches—silver; two candelabra,—gold:
Precious as only tried and precious things
Are of their essence bold,
The Roman John and Paul—young heads together—
Pray on, nor is there any question whether
The image that the Emperor’s Præfect brings
For worship will be worshipped, for already
The service of their ritual is so steady
It is as day moving to noon, and moving to night’s fold.
Precious as only tried and precious things
Are of their essence bold,
The Roman John and Paul—young heads together—
Pray on, nor is there any question whether
The image that the Emperor’s Præfect brings
For worship will be worshipped, for already
The service of their ritual is so steady
It is as day moving to noon, and moving to night’s fold.
In one white, empty chamber two brethren, yet as one,
And as a sepulchre their home made bare.
Ye ask what they have done?
And the poor answer, “These would have no treasure
Save this, that they can die.” O solemn pleasure
To see their home a casket everywhere
Wrought for their hour of death! Gone the slow mornings
Through which they wearied out the Emperor’s warnings!
Now they would hold their jewel safe in their white walls, with prayer.
And as a sepulchre their home made bare.
Ye ask what they have done?
And the poor answer, “These would have no treasure
Save this, that they can die.” O solemn pleasure
To see their home a casket everywhere
Wrought for their hour of death! Gone the slow mornings
Through which they wearied out the Emperor’s warnings!
Now they would hold their jewel safe in their white walls, with prayer.
The silence! One can listen how the gold morning sun
Sings through the air, the hush is grown so fine.
Steps!—Thus intrusive run
Rain-storms on solitudes—A white-flashed gleaming!
The brow of Jove, the cloud-white hair, the beaming
Cloud-swirl of beard! A voice that bids, “Incline,
And offer homage!” ... How the silence tingles!
The sun with air in call and echo mingles:
Those brethren of closed senses—peace! they have made no sign.
Sings through the air, the hush is grown so fine.
Steps!—Thus intrusive run
Rain-storms on solitudes—A white-flashed gleaming!
The brow of Jove, the cloud-white hair, the beaming
Cloud-swirl of beard! A voice that bids, “Incline,
And offer homage!” ... How the silence tingles!
The sun with air in call and echo mingles:
Those brethren of closed senses—peace! they have made no sign.
They had not sought to gather, even for the sick and poor,
The lilies of their garden—head by head,
The older with the newer—
Nor violet-roots from Pæstum, the weaved roses.
And now the garden of their home uncloses
To cover into secrecy the dead:
Deep hidden by the roses they had watered,
Lying together sanctified and slaughtered,
Their blood upon them underground, above the rose-leaves spread.
The lilies of their garden—head by head,
The older with the newer—
Nor violet-roots from Pæstum, the weaved roses.
And now the garden of their home uncloses
To cover into secrecy the dead:
Deep hidden by the roses they had watered,
Lying together sanctified and slaughtered,
Their blood upon them underground, above the rose-leaves spread.
. . . .
Lured, as the demons wander, demons sore afraid,
Unclean, tormented, and that do not cease
Their rending cries for aid,
The son of him who slew the saints, by daytime
Wandering, by night, that garden in the Maytime,
Is cured of his distraction and at peace:
Then glad Terentius, coming to the garden,
Of which his well-belovèd is the warden,
Plucketh a reed to glorify the martyrs he hath made.
Unclean, tormented, and that do not cease
Their rending cries for aid,
The son of him who slew the saints, by daytime
Wandering, by night, that garden in the Maytime,
Is cured of his distraction and at peace:
Then glad Terentius, coming to the garden,
Of which his well-belovèd is the warden,
Plucketh a reed to glorify the martyrs he hath made.
IN MONTE FANNO
SYLVESTER by an open tomb
Beheld Time’s vanity and doom—
A lovely body, as a flower,
Left by a ploughman’s foot, wet in a shower.
Beheld Time’s vanity and doom—
A lovely body, as a flower,
Left by a ploughman’s foot, wet in a shower.
Sylvester meditated, thought
His days to solitude were brought.
Sight of a corpse within its grave!...
To be an eremite alone were brave.
His days to solitude were brought.
Sight of a corpse within its grave!...
To be an eremite alone were brave.
Sylvester is a monk: and men
Grow frequent round his holy den:
Thence to a mount he leads them out,
Called Fannus ... through the wood they hear a shout.
Grow frequent round his holy den:
Thence to a mount he leads them out,
Called Fannus ... through the wood they hear a shout.
Sylvester builds his cloister.—Hush!
Across the doorstep comes a rush,
And all the monks faint with a lure
That those in burgeoning woods lost deep endure.
Across the doorstep comes a rush,
And all the monks faint with a lure
That those in burgeoning woods lost deep endure.
Sylvester calls into the dark—
There is a breath of those that hark—
“Peace, peace! I am Sylvester! Peace!”
Trespass and echoes and sweet motions cease.
There is a breath of those that hark—
“Peace, peace! I am Sylvester! Peace!”
Trespass and echoes and sweet motions cease.
Sylvester in the woods, as still
Even as the grave that bowed his will,
When he became at first a monk,
Rules every power in oak and olive-trunk.
Even as the grave that bowed his will,
When he became at first a monk,
Rules every power in oak and olive-trunk.
Sylvester conquers by his name:
King Fannus and all Fauns lie tame
Beneath it, and the wild-wood Cross,
That he hath planted deep into the moss.
King Fannus and all Fauns lie tame
Beneath it, and the wild-wood Cross,
That he hath planted deep into the moss.
MACRINUS AGAINST TREES
“How bare! How all the lion-desert lies
Before your cell!
Behind, are leaves and boughs on which your eyes
Could, as the eyes of shepherd, on his flock,
That turn to the soft mass from barren rock,
Familiarly dwell.”
Before your cell!
Behind, are leaves and boughs on which your eyes
Could, as the eyes of shepherd, on his flock,
That turn to the soft mass from barren rock,
Familiarly dwell.”
“O Traveller, for me the empty sands
Burning to white!
There nothing on the wilderness withstands
The soul or prayer. I would not look on trees;
My thoughts and will were shaken in their breeze,
And buried as by night.
Burning to white!
There nothing on the wilderness withstands
The soul or prayer. I would not look on trees;
My thoughts and will were shaken in their breeze,
And buried as by night.
“Yea, listen! If you build a cell, at last,
Turned to the wood,
Your fall is near, your safety over-past;
And if you plant a tree beside your door
Your fall is there beside it, and no more
The solitude is frank and good.
Turned to the wood,
Your fall is near, your safety over-past;
And if you plant a tree beside your door
Your fall is there beside it, and no more
The solitude is frank and good.
“For trees must have soft dampness for their growth,
And interfold
Their boughs and leaves into a screen, not loath
To hide soft, tempting creatures at their play,
That, playing timbrels and bright shawms, delay,
And wear one’s spirit old.
And interfold
Their boughs and leaves into a screen, not loath
To hide soft, tempting creatures at their play,
That, playing timbrels and bright shawms, delay,
And wear one’s spirit old.
“Smoothly such numberless distractions come—
Impertinence
Of multiplicity, salute and hum.
Away with solitude of leafy shade,
Mustering coy birds and beasts, and men waylaid,
Tingling each hooded sense!
Impertinence
Of multiplicity, salute and hum.
Away with solitude of leafy shade,
Mustering coy birds and beasts, and men waylaid,
Tingling each hooded sense!
PASCHAL’S MASS
THE sheep still in dew, but the sky
In sun, the far river in sun;
And the incense of flowers steeped bright—
Their smell as sweet light;
And the shepherd-boy tethered on high
To his flock and his day’s work begun.
In sun, the far river in sun;
And the incense of flowers steeped bright—
Their smell as sweet light;
And the shepherd-boy tethered on high
To his flock and his day’s work begun.
The bees in the wind of the dawn;
The larks not yet climbing aloft
As high as the Aragon Hills ...
What bell-ringing thrills
Through the bell-wether’s pastoral lorn?
From the valley a bell clear and soft.
The larks not yet climbing aloft
As high as the Aragon Hills ...
What bell-ringing thrills
Through the bell-wether’s pastoral lorn?
From the valley a bell clear and soft.
The shepherd-boy kneeling in dew;
The bell of his wether rung sharp;
Below him the tinkle and sway,
From far, far away,
Of the sacring-bell, clear as a harp
In its chime of God lifted anew.
The bell of his wether rung sharp;
Below him the tinkle and sway,
From far, far away,
Of the sacring-bell, clear as a harp
In its chime of God lifted anew.
For his God, in the vale, on the height
He weeps; while the morning-larks rise.
Lo, in chasuble, living and rich
Golden rays cross-stitch,
Foreshown by magnificent light—
Lo, an angel grows firm on his eyes!
He weeps; while the morning-larks rise.
Lo, in chasuble, living and rich
Golden rays cross-stitch,
Foreshown by magnificent light—
Lo, an angel grows firm on his eyes!
As an altar of marvellous stone
Before him the mountain hath blazed,
Round the angel, who lifts in the air
A Sun that is there:
To the sheep and the shepherd-boy shown,
With the ringing of larks, God is raised.
Before him the mountain hath blazed,
Round the angel, who lifts in the air
A Sun that is there:
To the sheep and the shepherd-boy shown,
With the ringing of larks, God is raised.
O Angel-priest, fragrant with thyme,
Girt with sixfold glorious wings!
O sky of the mountains above
Adventurous Love!
How through air and the larks’ watchful chime
Earth her incense, as thurifer, flings!
Girt with sixfold glorious wings!
O sky of the mountains above
Adventurous Love!
How through air and the larks’ watchful chime
Earth her incense, as thurifer, flings!
A SNOW-CAVE
SUDDENLY the snow is falling fast:
Slow the lovely speed,
All the air being full with fulness cast
On the mounded world ...
And the firmamental snow will give no heed,
Nor the snow terrestrial have a care
For anything its heavy deluge hides,
For anything upcurled
In its mountain-hug, nor what abides
Imprisoned deep of the imprisoning air.
Slow the lovely speed,
All the air being full with fulness cast
On the mounded world ...
And the firmamental snow will give no heed,
Nor the snow terrestrial have a care
For anything its heavy deluge hides,
For anything upcurled
In its mountain-hug, nor what abides
Imprisoned deep of the imprisoning air.
Peter of Alcantara, how wide
And untrodden quite
Swells the sudden snow on every side,
Speckled with no sign,
One in uncontrollable and fearful white!
And untrodden quite
Swells the sudden snow on every side,
Speckled with no sign,
One in uncontrollable and fearful white!
. . . .
Swiftly, as it came, its mood is changed ...
Now it drifts a white flame of caress,
As if it took design,
Learnt a new art of its loveliness,
And in a cave above the Saint is ranged.
Now it drifts a white flame of caress,
As if it took design,
Learnt a new art of its loveliness,
And in a cave above the Saint is ranged.
Hour on hour the world is flooded bright
With fair agency,
In continuance a sleep, of might
To lay death athwart
Any bosom, any limbs that cannot flee:
Yet safely housed the holy traveller waits,
Though in that white storm caught;
For the deep snow of earth its snow abates
Before a force of deeper chastity.
With fair agency,
In continuance a sleep, of might
To lay death athwart
Any bosom, any limbs that cannot flee:
Yet safely housed the holy traveller waits,
Though in that white storm caught;
For the deep snow of earth its snow abates
Before a force of deeper chastity.
Little flakes, that touch with feet like birds,
Touch him not at all,
But lie convex in a wave that curds,
Bowed upon its vault,
Stooping on him almost won to fall,
Yet in strength withheld, whole in its love,
As a virgin praying for a priest:
So in its lovely halt,
So aloof from sense, it rears above
The saint its covert, not a flake released.
Touch him not at all,
But lie convex in a wave that curds,
Bowed upon its vault,
Stooping on him almost won to fall,
Yet in strength withheld, whole in its love,
As a virgin praying for a priest:
So in its lovely halt,
So aloof from sense, it rears above
The saint its covert, not a flake released.
PROPHET
BLESSED with joy, as daybreak under cloud—
Tender light of youth in the old face—
Blessed with joy beneath the weight and shroud
Of the years before this day of Grace,
Simeon blesses God and praises Him,
As a little child and mother slim
With first girlhood come their way
Toward his face, and night becometh day.
Tender light of youth in the old face—
Blessed with joy beneath the weight and shroud
Of the years before this day of Grace,
Simeon blesses God and praises Him,
As a little child and mother slim
With first girlhood come their way
Toward his face, and night becometh day.
Prophet, joy for thee and for thy land!
Wide the welcome and the peace of joy!
But he takes the infant on his hand,
Graciously receives the milking boy
From the mother’s bosom, from her heart,
While she stands in reverence apart.
Lo, the old man’s countenance,
In a wave of anguish breaks from trance!
Wide the welcome and the peace of joy!
But he takes the infant on his hand,
Graciously receives the milking boy
From the mother’s bosom, from her heart,
While she stands in reverence apart.
Lo, the old man’s countenance,
In a wave of anguish breaks from trance!
All the features lift with power, and sink,
As if sudden earthquake heaved and rolled
Through them, from a sudden thought they think.
Can a child of but a few weeks old
So confuse with terror an old man?
Yea, this child, laid on his fingers’ span,
Is for the ruin or the rise
Of the generations, Simeon cries.
As if sudden earthquake heaved and rolled
Through them, from a sudden thought they think.
Can a child of but a few weeks old
So confuse with terror an old man?
Yea, this child, laid on his fingers’ span,
Is for the ruin or the rise
Of the generations, Simeon cries.
Yea, a child, a tender handful, sleek
As a pearl—and the dire earthquake’s power
In his little body set, to wreak
Dread requital on the souls that cower
Mad with desolation, naked, lost,
Or uplifted wild from a dead host:
For the rise and ruin set
Of so many—but not yet, not yet!
As a pearl—and the dire earthquake’s power
In his little body set, to wreak
Dread requital on the souls that cower
Mad with desolation, naked, lost,
Or uplifted wild from a dead host:
For the rise and ruin set
Of so many—but not yet, not yet!
Shattered by the Child, the Prophet turns
To the slender Mother, bright and bowed.
Woe again! A flawless lightning burns
Through his eyes and his weak voice rings loud,
How a sword shall pierce her heart alone
That out of many hearts their thoughts be shown.
Simeon, terror masks all joy
In this Mother and her milking Boy!
To the slender Mother, bright and bowed.
Woe again! A flawless lightning burns
Through his eyes and his weak voice rings loud,
How a sword shall pierce her heart alone
That out of many hearts their thoughts be shown.
Simeon, terror masks all joy
In this Mother and her milking Boy!
LOOKING UPON JESUS AS HE WALKED
WHAT is it thou hast seen,
O desert prophet, hung with camel’s hair, and lean?
What makes thine eyes so wide?
Not the huge desert where the camel-owners ride;
But One, who comes along,
So humble in His steps, and yet to Him belong
Thy days in their surcease,
Because He must increase as thou must now decrease.
Behold thy God, whose strength
Is as the coiling-in of thy life’s length!
Thou of wide eyes, wide soul,
Thy heart-blood as He comes to thee heaves on its goal!
O desert prophet, hung with camel’s hair, and lean?
What makes thine eyes so wide?
Not the huge desert where the camel-owners ride;
But One, who comes along,
So humble in His steps, and yet to Him belong
Thy days in their surcease,
Because He must increase as thou must now decrease.
Behold thy God, whose strength
Is as the coiling-in of thy life’s length!
Thou of wide eyes, wide soul,
Thy heart-blood as He comes to thee heaves on its goal!
Saint of the sinner, John,
Those whom thy lustral water hath been poured upon,
Those who have kept thy fast
With locusts and wild honey and long hours have passed
In penance, when they see
Christ coming toward them, young and fair with what shall be,
And giving God delight,
They know, by very doom of that remorseless sight,
That they, as they have been,
Will fade away, diminish and no more be seen:
They must, O desert saint,
Bow them to certain death and yet they must not faint,
And yet they must proclaim
The obliterating flourish of their Slayer’s name.
Those whom thy lustral water hath been poured upon,
Those who have kept thy fast
With locusts and wild honey and long hours have passed
In penance, when they see
Christ coming toward them, young and fair with what shall be,
And giving God delight,
They know, by very doom of that remorseless sight,
That they, as they have been,
Will fade away, diminish and no more be seen:
They must, O desert saint,
Bow them to certain death and yet they must not faint,
And yet they must proclaim
The obliterating flourish of their Slayer’s name.
A DANCE OF DEATH
HOW lovely is a silver winter-day
Of sturdy ice.
That clogs the hidden river’s tiniest bay
With diamond-stone of price
To make an empress cast her dazzling stones
Upon its light as hail—
So little its effulgency condones
Her diamonds’ denser trail
Of radiance on the air!
How strange this ice, so motionless and still,
Yet calling as with music to our feet,
So that they chafe and dare
Their swiftest motion to repeat
These harmonies of challenge, sounds that fill
The floor of ice, as the crystalline sphere
Around the heavens is filled with such a song
That, when they hear,
The stars, each in their heaven, are drawn along!
Of sturdy ice.
That clogs the hidden river’s tiniest bay
With diamond-stone of price
To make an empress cast her dazzling stones
Upon its light as hail—
So little its effulgency condones
Her diamonds’ denser trail
Of radiance on the air!
How strange this ice, so motionless and still,
Yet calling as with music to our feet,
So that they chafe and dare
Their swiftest motion to repeat
These harmonies of challenge, sounds that fill
The floor of ice, as the crystalline sphere
Around the heavens is filled with such a song
That, when they hear,
The stars, each in their heaven, are drawn along!
Oh, see, a dancer! One whose feet
Move on unshod with steel!
She is not skating fleet
On toe and heel,
But only tip-toe dances in a whirl,
A lovely dancing-girl,
Upon the frozen surface of the stream.
Without a wonder, it would seem,
She could not keep her sway,
The balance of her limbs
Sure on the musical, iced river-way
That, sparkling, dims
Her trinkets as they swing, so high its sparks
Tingle the sun and scatter song like larks.
Move on unshod with steel!
She is not skating fleet
On toe and heel,
But only tip-toe dances in a whirl,
A lovely dancing-girl,
Upon the frozen surface of the stream.
Without a wonder, it would seem,
She could not keep her sway,
The balance of her limbs
Sure on the musical, iced river-way
That, sparkling, dims
Her trinkets as they swing, so high its sparks
Tingle the sun and scatter song like larks.
She dances mid the sumptuous whiteness set
Of winter’s sunniest noon;
She dances as the sun-rays that forget
In winter sunset falleth soon
To sheer sunset:
She dances with a languor through the frost
As she had never lost,
In lands where there is snow,
The Orient’s immeasurable glow.
Of winter’s sunniest noon;
She dances as the sun-rays that forget
In winter sunset falleth soon
To sheer sunset:
She dances with a languor through the frost
As she had never lost,
In lands where there is snow,
The Orient’s immeasurable glow.
Who is this dancer white—
A creature slight,
Weaving the East upon a stream of ice,
That in a trice
Might trip the dance and fling the dancer down?
Does she not know deeps under ice can drown?
A creature slight,
Weaving the East upon a stream of ice,
That in a trice
Might trip the dance and fling the dancer down?
Does she not know deeps under ice can drown?
This is Salome, in a western land,
An exile with Herodias, her mother,
With Herod and Herodias:
And she has sought the river’s icy mass,
Companioned by no other,
To dance upon the ice—each hand
Held, as a snow-bird’s wings,
In heavy poise.
Ecstatic, with no noise,
Athwart the ice her dream, her spell she flings;
And Winter in a rapture of delight
Flings up and down the spangles of her light.
An exile with Herodias, her mother,
With Herod and Herodias:
And she has sought the river’s icy mass,
Companioned by no other,
To dance upon the ice—each hand
Held, as a snow-bird’s wings,
In heavy poise.
Ecstatic, with no noise,
Athwart the ice her dream, her spell she flings;
And Winter in a rapture of delight
Flings up and down the spangles of her light.
Oh, hearken, hearken!... Ice and frost,
From these cajoling motions freed,
Have straight given heed
To Will more firm. In their obedience
Their masses dense
Are riven as by a sword....
Where is the Vision by the snow adored?
The Vision is no more
Seen from the noontide shore.
Oh, fearful crash of thunder from the stream,
As there were thunder-clouds upon its wave!
Could nothing save
The dancer in the noontide beam?
She is engulphed and all the dance is done.
Bright leaps the noontide sun—
But stay, what leaps beneath it? A gold head,
That twinkles with its jewels bright
As water-drops....
O murdered Baptist of the severed head,
Her head was caught and girded tight,
And severed by the ice-brook sword, and sped
In dance that never stops.
It skims and hops
Across the ice that rasped it. Smooth and gay,
And void of care,
It takes its sunny way:
But underneath the golden hair,
And underneath those jewel-sparks,
Keen noontide marks
A little face as grey as evening ice;
Lips, open in a scream no soul may hear
Eyes fixed as they beheld the silver plate
That they at Macherontis once beheld;
While the hair trails, although so fleet and nice
The motion of the head as subjugate
To its own law: yet in the face what fear,
To what excess compelled!
From these cajoling motions freed,
Have straight given heed
To Will more firm. In their obedience
Their masses dense
Are riven as by a sword....
Where is the Vision by the snow adored?
The Vision is no more
Seen from the noontide shore.
Oh, fearful crash of thunder from the stream,
As there were thunder-clouds upon its wave!
Could nothing save
The dancer in the noontide beam?
She is engulphed and all the dance is done.
Bright leaps the noontide sun—
But stay, what leaps beneath it? A gold head,
That twinkles with its jewels bright
As water-drops....
O murdered Baptist of the severed head,
Her head was caught and girded tight,
And severed by the ice-brook sword, and sped
In dance that never stops.
It skims and hops
Across the ice that rasped it. Smooth and gay,
And void of care,
It takes its sunny way:
But underneath the golden hair,
And underneath those jewel-sparks,
Keen noontide marks
A little face as grey as evening ice;
Lips, open in a scream no soul may hear
Eyes fixed as they beheld the silver plate
That they at Macherontis once beheld;
While the hair trails, although so fleet and nice
The motion of the head as subjugate
To its own law: yet in the face what fear,
To what excess compelled!
OBEDIENCE
O INSTRUMENT of God, baptizing men
In vehement, lone Jordan of the wilds,
Amid the rushes, when
Thou wert startled by the sight
Of One coming, simply bright
As a Lamb, across the sand,
Thou didst tremble to abide
In the shallows and to dash the tide
Of the current on a Head
That must bow beneath the sin of men!
Thou wouldst only, at command,
Keep thy awful station, grown more awful then.
In vehement, lone Jordan of the wilds,
Amid the rushes, when
Thou wert startled by the sight
Of One coming, simply bright
As a Lamb, across the sand,
Thou didst tremble to abide
In the shallows and to dash the tide
Of the current on a Head
That must bow beneath the sin of men!
Thou wouldst only, at command,
Keep thy awful station, grown more awful then.
But thou wert obedient to His word,
Who was greater beyond words than thou,
As thy lips averred:
And, obedient, thou wert blest
With the presence manifest
Of the Holy Trinity—
Thou the Body of the Son
Didst behold on which thy rite was done;
Thou didst hear the Father’s Voice,
As the firmament soft thunder heard;
And thy senses, blest to hear and see,
Might behold the Spirit poised, a sunlit Bird.
Who was greater beyond words than thou,
As thy lips averred:
And, obedient, thou wert blest
With the presence manifest
Of the Holy Trinity—
Thou the Body of the Son
Didst behold on which thy rite was done;
Thou didst hear the Father’s Voice,
As the firmament soft thunder heard;
And thy senses, blest to hear and see,
Might behold the Spirit poised, a sunlit Bird.
GARDENS ENCLOSED
GARDEN by the brook,
The brook Kedron—
Olive-silvered nook,
Red flowers to kneel on:
There in blood and strife divine,
There a Eucharist outspread,
Christ gave the Father in a chalice Wine,
And in His yielded Will He offered Bread.
The brook Kedron—
Olive-silvered nook,
Red flowers to kneel on:
There in blood and strife divine,
There a Eucharist outspread,
Christ gave the Father in a chalice Wine,
And in His yielded Will He offered Bread.
GARDEN-SEED
WHAT art Thou sowing in the garden-ground,
Sowing, sowing with such pain?
Clouds are overhead, and all around
Spring hath fallen spring-rain
Of seed-growing power.
Lo, where Thou bowest down, it seems a shower
Hath laid the grass, as rain ran through,
Engendering rain, stronger than early dew.
Sowing, sowing with such pain?
Clouds are overhead, and all around
Spring hath fallen spring-rain
Of seed-growing power.
Lo, where Thou bowest down, it seems a shower
Hath laid the grass, as rain ran through,
Engendering rain, stronger than early dew.
It is Thy Agony that pierces deep
Through the sod of that still place;
For Thou bowest down where Thou dost weep,
Bowest down Thy face;
And Thou sowest seed,
Drops of Thy most Holy Blood, that bleed
Through brow and limbs in sweat, and stay
Red on the Earth, while the tears sink away.
Through the sod of that still place;
For Thou bowest down where Thou dost weep,
Bowest down Thy face;
And Thou sowest seed,
Drops of Thy most Holy Blood, that bleed
Through brow and limbs in sweat, and stay
Red on the Earth, while the tears sink away.
UNIVERSA COHORS
THEY call the cohort from all sides together....
There is a king, a king of mockery,
His kingdom a pretence,
An actor to be dressed for all to see,
Whose body oozes from the cords or leather
That struck with lashes dense—
There is a king to mock, a make-believe
To be derided, a poor form to grieve
With haughty purple of the robe of state,
And acclamations powerless to elate;
A victim to be tortured and made grand
With clothes whose pomp He cannot understand,
Claiming with slavish brow their heritage:
There is the mocking of a solemn dupe,
With laughter and a jollity of rage.
They call together, like the vultures called
To feast on what is yet a feast forestalled,
The cohort in a troop.
There is a king, a king of mockery,
His kingdom a pretence,
An actor to be dressed for all to see,
Whose body oozes from the cords or leather
That struck with lashes dense—
There is a king to mock, a make-believe
To be derided, a poor form to grieve
With haughty purple of the robe of state,
And acclamations powerless to elate;
A victim to be tortured and made grand
With clothes whose pomp He cannot understand,
Claiming with slavish brow their heritage:
There is the mocking of a solemn dupe,
With laughter and a jollity of rage.
They call together, like the vultures called
To feast on what is yet a feast forestalled,
The cohort in a troop.
O Martyrs, press together from all regions,
You have a King, a King for whom you died—
His kingdom built on gems—
And ye are dressed in purple from His side;
The stoles of glory, clothing all your legion,
His purple to their hems!
Press round Him whom the Romans mocked that day,
Press round Him, Martyrs; keep His foes at bay!
And let me, though far off from your bright red
Of vestures triumphing in Blood He shed,
Yet wrap my heart in His deep sanguine robe,
Ensanguined from the scourge, and nails that probe,
And spear that cleaves! Wrapt in His Blood, O heart,
We must bear witness that His purple dress
Is not the dressing of an actor’s part,
But of a Royalty no woof of man
Might clothe that Day of Woe, nor ever can—
That is the Martyr’s dress.
You have a King, a King for whom you died—
His kingdom built on gems—
And ye are dressed in purple from His side;
The stoles of glory, clothing all your legion,
His purple to their hems!
Press round Him whom the Romans mocked that day,
Press round Him, Martyrs; keep His foes at bay!
And let me, though far off from your bright red
Of vestures triumphing in Blood He shed,
Yet wrap my heart in His deep sanguine robe,
Ensanguined from the scourge, and nails that probe,
And spear that cleaves! Wrapt in His Blood, O heart,
We must bear witness that His purple dress
Is not the dressing of an actor’s part,
But of a Royalty no woof of man
Might clothe that Day of Woe, nor ever can—
That is the Martyr’s dress.
IN EXTREMIS
WHAT is the desert? Thirst,
And very immolation’s loneliness!
Upon that land of death dry ridges press,
Like to sand-drifts on the tongue—
And the sequestered heart through fear will burst.
And very immolation’s loneliness!
Upon that land of death dry ridges press,
Like to sand-drifts on the tongue—
And the sequestered heart through fear will burst.
Armies have gone along,
Defeated, to oblivion among
The naught of those bare sands—
Banners and horses and bright-harnessed bands.
None hath beheld the banners wave and slip
Abyssward, and the horses, under whip
Of crazy dust, plunge down
With manes sand-tossed,
Beneath the plain they crossed,
Making athwart the breadth a little frown,
Gone in its very moment, like the smile
That followed, as the horsemen flashed awhile
Above the grave, and sank bright, and were gone.
Defeated, to oblivion among
The naught of those bare sands—
Banners and horses and bright-harnessed bands.
None hath beheld the banners wave and slip
Abyssward, and the horses, under whip
Of crazy dust, plunge down
With manes sand-tossed,
Beneath the plain they crossed,
Making athwart the breadth a little frown,
Gone in its very moment, like the smile
That followed, as the horsemen flashed awhile
Above the grave, and sank bright, and were gone.
O desert, full of plots,
On lapping water, of sleek palm-tree knots,
And isles in haunted channels; cruel earth,
Mirage of desolation, grace of dearth,
Many have died in anguish at the pain
Never to drink those lakes that gibe and wane!
“I thirst”—“My God, Thou hast forsaken Me!”
Parched, sinking in abysses mortally,
O Christ, and there is none to succour Thee,
Water of Life, perpetual Deity!
On lapping water, of sleek palm-tree knots,
And isles in haunted channels; cruel earth,
Mirage of desolation, grace of dearth,
Many have died in anguish at the pain
Never to drink those lakes that gibe and wane!
“I thirst”—“My God, Thou hast forsaken Me!”
Parched, sinking in abysses mortally,
O Christ, and there is none to succour Thee,
Water of Life, perpetual Deity!
A LIGNO
THERE were trees that spring—
One on a little hill,
One in a small, green field.
One stood a leaf-stripped thing;
One had begun to fill
With leaves from shoots unsealed,
With purple flowers along the wood—
So those trees stood.
One on a little hill,
One in a small, green field.
One stood a leaf-stripped thing;
One had begun to fill
With leaves from shoots unsealed,
With purple flowers along the wood—
So those trees stood.
One bore up a Form
On the clean branches nailed,
Ineffable in peace:
One bent as if a storm
In its descent had trailed
Down the red blossom-fleece;
And where the boughs most sullen hung
A crisped form swung.
On the clean branches nailed,
Ineffable in peace:
One bent as if a storm
In its descent had trailed
Down the red blossom-fleece;
And where the boughs most sullen hung
A crisped form swung.
One the Tree of Life—
Both near Jerusalem—
And one of Death the Tree!
One bore a bitter strife;
A cry came from its stem:
“Thou hast forsaken Me!”
The other heard no sound at all,
Save a dumb fall.
Both near Jerusalem—
And one of Death the Tree!
One bore a bitter strife;
A cry came from its stem:
“Thou hast forsaken Me!”
The other heard no sound at all,
Save a dumb fall.
ONE REED
SHAKEN by winds to sigh, to song,
One reed amid the misty throng
That to a reed-bed, Christ, belong—
One reed among
Those who are reeds to every wind,
Now in Thy Presence, now declined:
One reed amid the misty throng
That to a reed-bed, Christ, belong—
One reed among
Those who are reeds to every wind,
Now in Thy Presence, now declined:
Cut me away from dim caprice,
And sheer me from the reedy fleece!
Let my poor, shivering motion cease,
Dead of Thy peace:
A reed and no more shaken—yea,
No more a slant sedge-reed I pray!
And sheer me from the reedy fleece!
Let my poor, shivering motion cease,
Dead of Thy peace:
A reed and no more shaken—yea,
No more a slant sedge-reed I pray!
No more! But, Mercy infinite,
Let me not be a reed to smite
The thorns within Thy forehead tight,
And urge to sight
Thy sacred Blood and urge Thy pain!
Better the devious winds again!
Let me not be a reed to smite
The thorns within Thy forehead tight,
And urge to sight
Thy sacred Blood and urge Thy pain!
Better the devious winds again!
CRYING OUT
IN the Orient heat He stands—
Heat that makes the palm-trees dim,
Palms that do not shelter Him,
As under the fierce blue He stands with outstretched hands.
Heat that makes the palm-trees dim,
Palms that do not shelter Him,
As under the fierce blue He stands with outstretched hands.
As a lizard of the rocks,
Under furnace-sun He stays;
Earth beneath Him in a daze
Is faint and trembling, spite of rocks, in shadeless blocks.
Under furnace-sun He stays;
Earth beneath Him in a daze
Is faint and trembling, spite of rocks, in shadeless blocks.
He among them mid the blue,
With a mouth wide open held,
As a lion-fountain welled
Under the spaciousness of blue, the heat throbs through.
With a mouth wide open held,
As a lion-fountain welled
Under the spaciousness of blue, the heat throbs through.
Wide His mouth as lion’s, set
Wide for waters of a fount!
Through them words of challenge mount,
Great words that cry through them, wide-set, where men have met.
Wide for waters of a fount!
Through them words of challenge mount,
Great words that cry through them, wide-set, where men have met.
AD MORTEM
THIS sin is unto death. Whose death? Fair tomb
Of virgin rock, not for my corse such room!
Where never man hath lain
Shall I by sin attain—
Among the unpolluted crystals lie
In my malignity?
Of virgin rock, not for my corse such room!
Where never man hath lain
Shall I by sin attain—
Among the unpolluted crystals lie
In my malignity?
For I have killed my God, and I behold
His burial, behold His Body rolled
In a new sheet with nard,
And in the grotto hard
Lying as hard—O tenderest Love!—as block
Of that new-cloven rock.
His burial, behold His Body rolled
In a new sheet with nard,
And in the grotto hard
Lying as hard—O tenderest Love!—as block
Of that new-cloven rock.
As a vile, wandering spectre I must stray,
Now I have quenched the Light, that was my Day,
By wickedness, almost
Against the Holy Ghost,
Laying within His tomb God, laying Him
Wound tight in face and limb.
Now I have quenched the Light, that was my Day,
By wickedness, almost
Against the Holy Ghost,
Laying within His tomb God, laying Him
Wound tight in face and limb.
I cannot see! My eyes are wells that beat
Fountains of tears forth on my hands and feet:
With fire of pain I cry,
That angels of the sky
Come forth.... “My God, arise and live once more!
My sin I will abhor!
Fountains of tears forth on my hands and feet:
With fire of pain I cry,
That angels of the sky
Come forth.... “My God, arise and live once more!
My sin I will abhor!
“Divine One, be not dead and put away!
O Holy Ghost, blow down the stone, I pray,
Though it should crush me there
Outspread, the worst I dare.
Divine One, mid the tombs, with pardoning grace
Unwrap Thy limbs, Thy face!
O Holy Ghost, blow down the stone, I pray,
Though it should crush me there
Outspread, the worst I dare.
Divine One, mid the tombs, with pardoning grace
Unwrap Thy limbs, Thy face!
“Austere come forth upon me as grey dawn!
Well it had been that I had not been born,
Who could Thy burial see!....
What will become of me,
Unless Thou wilt arise and bid me live,
Unless Thou wilt forgive?”
Well it had been that I had not been born,
Who could Thy burial see!....
What will become of me,
Unless Thou wilt arise and bid me live,
Unless Thou wilt forgive?”
THE FLOWER FADETH
THE Lord died yesterday:—
Lowly and single, lost,
His worn disciples, tossed
With pain of tears, have wandered wide
In the country-fields, as sheep might stray.
No need to hide,
For harvesters that shout and sing have heard
Of the far city’s rumour scarce a word,
And only stare to see a stranger lost.
Lowly and single, lost,
His worn disciples, tossed
With pain of tears, have wandered wide
In the country-fields, as sheep might stray.
No need to hide,
For harvesters that shout and sing have heard
Of the far city’s rumour scarce a word,
And only stare to see a stranger lost.
Tears fight with Peter’s breath—
He roves a field of grass,
At eventide ... a mass
Of faded flower of grass, grown grey,
Cut from sap and clinging into death,
And bowed one way.
Alone amid the darkness soon to be
Deep midnight, Peter mourneth bitterly
Christ buried, the sunk day, the flower of grass.
He roves a field of grass,
At eventide ... a mass
Of faded flower of grass, grown grey,
Cut from sap and clinging into death,
And bowed one way.
Alone amid the darkness soon to be
Deep midnight, Peter mourneth bitterly
Christ buried, the sunk day, the flower of grass.
Yet he had hailed Him Christ....
The straw and clover feel
Sudden a lifted heel,
And, rudely whirled aside, are left
By the stranger’s feet, they had enticed
Beneath their weft.
But he is on the rock, the narrow way,
As if he talked with something he would say,
As if he would conceive as he could feel.
The straw and clover feel
Sudden a lifted heel,
And, rudely whirled aside, are left
By the stranger’s feet, they had enticed
Beneath their weft.
But he is on the rock, the narrow way,
As if he talked with something he would say,
As if he would conceive as he could feel.
He stands thus in sweet dark,
The hay upon the air,
His feet on bare rock bare,
Set as a statue’s, waiting on....
Is it a trumpet raised and sounded? Hark,
Hath a torch shone?
The cock crows and the sun appears! Yet dry
Is Peter’s face, although the dawn-bird cry,
As the first Easter Day assumes the air.
The hay upon the air,
His feet on bare rock bare,
Set as a statue’s, waiting on....
Is it a trumpet raised and sounded? Hark,
Hath a torch shone?
The cock crows and the sun appears! Yet dry
Is Peter’s face, although the dawn-bird cry,
As the first Easter Day assumes the air.