Songs Before Sunrise

Is it so, that the sword is broken,
   Our sword, that was halfway drawn?
Is it so, that the light was a spark,
That the bird we hailed as the lark
Sang in her sleep in the dark,
And the song we took for a token
   Bore false witness of dawn?

Spread in the sight of the lion,
   Surely, we said, is the net
Spread but in vain, and the snare
Vain; for the light is aware,
And the common, the chainless air,
Of his coming whom all we cry on;
   Surely in vain is it set.

Surely the day is on our side,
   And heaven, and the sacred sun;
Surely the stars, and the bright
Immemorial inscrutable night:
Yea, the darkness, because of our light,
Is no darkness, but blooms as a bower-side
   When the winter is over and done;

We are here in the world’s bower-garden,
   We that have watched out the snow.
Surely the fruitfuller showers,
The splendider sunbeams are ours;
Shall winter return on the flowers,
And the frost after April harden,
   And the fountains in May not flow?

We have in our hands the shining
   And the fire in our hearts of a star.
Who are we that our tongues should palter,
Hearts bow down, hands falter,
Who are clothed as with flame from the altar,
That the kings of the earth, repining,
   Far off, watch from afar?

Woe is ours if we doubt or dissemble,
   Woe, if our hearts not abide.
Are our chiefs not among us, we said,
Great chiefs, living and dead,
To lead us glad to be led?
For whose sake, if a man of us tremble,
   He shall not be on our side.

Though this be lame, and the other
   Fleet, but blind from the sun,
And the race be no more to these,
Alas! nor the palm to seize,
Who are weary and hungry of ease,
Yet, O Freedom, we said, O our mother,
   Is there not left to thee one?

Is there not left of thy daughters,
   Is there not one to thine hand?
Fairer than these, and of fame
Higher from of old by her name;
Washed in her tears, and in flame
Bathed as in baptism of waters,
   Unto all men a chosen land.

Her hope in her heart was broken,
   Fire was upon her, and clomb,
Hiding her, high as her head;
And the world went past her, and said
(We heard it say) she was dead;
And now, behold, she bath spoken,
   She that was dead, saying, “Rome.”

The sorrowful, bound unto sorrow,
   The woe-worn people, and all
That of old were discomforted,
And men that famish for bread,
And men that mourn for their dead,
She bade them be glad on the morrow,
   Who endured in the day of her thrall.

The blind, and the people in prison,
   Souls without hope, without home,
How glad were they all that heard!
When the winged white flame of the word
Passed over men’s dust, and stirred
Death; for Italia was risen,
   And risen her light upon Rome.

The light of her sword in the gateway
   Shone, an unquenchable flame,
Bloodless, a sword to release,
A light from the eyes of peace,
To bid grief utterly cease,
And the wrong of the old world straightway
   Pass from the face of her fame:

As the answering of thunder to thunder
   Is the storm-beaten sound of her past;
As the calling of sea unto sea
Is the noise of her years yet to be;
For this ye knew not is she,
Whose bonds are broken in sunder;
   This is she at the last.

So spake we aloud, high-minded,
   Full of our will; and behold,
The speech that was halfway spoken
Breaks, as a pledge that is broken,
As a king’s pledge, leaving in token
Grief only for high hopes blinded,
   New grief grafted on old.

We halt by the walls of the city,
   Within sound of the clash of her chain.
Hearing, we know that in there
The lioness chafes in her lair,
Shakes the storm of her hair,
Struggles in hands without pity,
   Roars to the lion in vain.

Over fields without harvest or culture,
   Over hordes without honour or love,
Over nations that groan with their kings,
As an imminent pestilence flings
Swift death from her shadowing wings,
So he, who hath claws as a vulture,
   Plumage and beak as a dove.

He saith, “I am pilot and haven,
   Light and redemption I am
Unto souls overlaboured,” he saith;
And to all men the blast of his breath
Is a savour of death unto death;
And the Dove of his worship a raven,
   And a wolf-cub the life-giving Lamb.

He calls his sheep as a shepherd,
   Calls from the wilderness home,
“Come unto me and be fed,”
To feed them with ashes for bread
And grass from the graves of the dead,
Leaps on the fold as a leopard,
   Slays, and says, “I am Rome,”

As swords are his tender mercies,
   His kisses as mortal stings;
Under his hallowing hands
Life dies down in all lands;
Kings pray to him, prone where he stands,
And his blessings, as other men’s curses,
   Disanoint where they consecrate kings.

With an oil of unclean consecration,
   With effusion of blood and of tears,
With uplifting of cross and of keys,
Priest, though thou hallow us these,
Yet even as they cling to thy knees
Nation awakens by nation,
   King by king disappears.

How shall the spirit be loyal
   To the shell of a spiritless thing?
Erred once, in only a word,
The sweet great song that we heard
Poured upon Tuscany, erred,
Calling a crowned man royal
   That was no more than a king.

She saw not—happy, not seeing—
   Saw not as we with her eyes
Aspromonte; she felt
Never the heart in her melt
As in us when the news was dealt
Melted all hope out of being,
   Dropped all dawn from the skies.

In that weary funereal season,
   In that heart-stricken grief-ridden time,
The weight of a king and the worth,
With anger and sorrowful mirth,
We weighed in the balance of earth,
And light was his word as a treason,
   And heavy his crown as a crime.

Banners of kings shall ye follow
   None, and have thrones on your side
None; ye shall gather and grow
Silently, row upon row,
Chosen of Freedom to go
Gladly where darkness may swallow,
   Gladly where death may divide.

Yet for a space they abide with us,
   Yet for a little they stand,
Bearing the heat of the day.
When their presence is taken away,
We shall wonder and worship, and say,
“Was not a star on our side with us?
   Was not a God at our hand?”

These, O men, shall ye honour,
   Liberty only, and these.
For thy sake and for all men’s and mine,
Brother, the crowns of them shine
Lighting the way to her shrine,
That our eyes may be fastened upon her,
   That our hands may encompass her knees.

In this day is the sign of her shown to you;
   Choose ye, to live or to die,
Now is her harvest in hand;
Now is her light in the land;
Choose ye, to sink or to stand,
For the might of her strength is made known to you
   Now, and her arm is on high.

Fear not for any man’s terrors;
   Wait not for any man’s word;
Patiently, each in his place,
Gird up your loins to the race;
Following the print of her pace,
Purged of desires and of errors,
   March to the tune ye have heard.

March to the tune of the voice of her,
   Breathing the balm of her breath,
Loving the light of her skies.
Blessed is he on whose eyes
Dawns but her light as he dies;
Blessed are ye that make choice of her,
   Equal to life and to death.

Ye that when faith is nigh frozen,
   Ye that when hope is nigh gone,
Still, over wastes, over waves,
Still, among wrecks, among graves,
Follow the splendour that saves,
Happy, her children, her chosen,
   Loyally led of her on.

Ye that have joy in your living,
   Ye that are careful to live,
You her thunders go by:
Live, let men be, let them lie,
Serve your season, and die;
Gifts have your masters for giving,
   Gifts hath not Freedom to give;

She, without shelter or station,
   She, beyond limit or bar,
Urges to slumberless speed
Armies that famish, that bleed,
Sowing their lives for her seed,
That their dust may rebuild her a nation,
   That their souls may relight her a star.

Happy are all they that follow her;
   Them shall no trouble cast down;
Though she slay them, yet shall they trust in her,
For unsure there is nought nor unjust in her,
Blemish is none, neither rust in her;
Though it threaten, the night shall not swallow her,
   Tempest and storm shall not drown.

Turn ye, whose anguish oppressing you
   Crushes, asleep and awake,
For the wrong which is wrought as of yore;
That Italia may give of her store,
Having these things to give and no more;
Only her hands on you, blessing you;
   Only a pang for her sake;

Only her bosom to die on;
   Only her heart for a home,
And a name with her children to be
From Calabrian to Adrian sea
Famous in cities made free
That ring to the roar of the lion
   Proclaiming republican Rome.

At the time when the stars are grey,
   And the gold of the molten moon
Fades, and the twilight is thinned,
And the sun leaps up, and the wind,
A light rose, not of the day,
   A stronger light than of noon.

As the light of a face much loved
   Was the face of the light that clomb;
As a mother’s whitened with woes
Her adorable head that arose;
As the sound of a God that is moved,
   Her voice went forth upon Rome.

At her lips it fluttered and failed
   Twice, and sobbed into song,
And sank as a flame sinks under;
Then spake, and the speech was thunder,
And the cheek as he heard it paled
   Of the wrongdoer grown grey with the wrong.

“Is it time, is it time appointed,
   Angel of time, is it near?
For the spent night aches into day
When the kings shall slay not or pray,
And the high-priest, accursed and anointed,
   Sickens to deathward with fear.

“I lay my hand on her bosom,
   My hand on the heart of my earth,
And I feel as with shiver and sob
The triumphant heart in her throb,
The dead petals dilate into blossom,
   The divine blood beat into birth.

“O my earth, are the springs in thee dry?
   O sweet, is thy body a tomb?
Nay, springs out of springs derive,
And summers from summers alive,
And the living from them that die;
   No tomb is here, but a womb.

“O manifold womb and divine,
   Give me fruit of my children, give!
I have given thee my dew for thy root,
Give thou me for my mouth of thy fruit;
Thine are the dead that are mine,
   And mine are thy sons that live.

“O goodly children, O strong
   Italian spirits, that wear
My glories as garments about you,
Could time or the world misdoubt you,
Behold, in disproof of the wrong,
   The field of the grave-pits there.

“Were not your pains as my pains?
   As my name are your names not divine?
Was not the light in your eyes
Mine, the light of my skies,
And the sweet shed blood of your veins,
   O my beautiful martyrs, mine?

“Of mine earth were your dear limbs made,
   Of mine air was your sweet life’s breath;
At the breasts of my love ye were fed,
O my children, my chosen, my dead,
At my breasts where again ye are laid,
   At the old mother’s bosom, in death.

“But ye that live, O their brothers,
   Be ye to me as they were;
Give me, my children that live,
What these dead grudged not to give,
Who alive were sons of your mother’s,
   Whose lips drew breath of your air.

“Till darkness by dawn be cloven,
   Let youth’s self mourn and abstain;
And love’s self find not an hour,
And spring’s self wear not a flower,
And Lycoris, with hair unenwoven,
   Hail back to the banquet in vain.

To the Signora Cairoli

1

      Blessed was she that bare,
      Hidden in flesh most fair,
For all men’s sake the likeness of all love;
      Holy that virgin’s womb,
      The old record saith, on whom
The glory of God alighted as a dove;
   Blessed, who brought to gracious birth
The sweet-souled Saviour of a man-tormented earth.

2

      But four times art thou blest,
      At whose most holy breast
Four times a godlike soldier-saviour hung;
      And thence a fourfold Christ
      Given to be sacrificed
To the same cross as the same bosom clung;
   Poured the same blood, to leave the same
Light on the many-folded mountain-skirts of fame.

      Shall they and thou not live,
      The children thou didst give
Forth of thine hands, a godlike gift, to death,
      Through fire of death to pass
      For her high sake that was
Thine and their mother, that gave all you breath?
   Shall ye not live till time drop dead,
O mother, and each her children’s consecrated head?

4

      Many brought gifts to take
      For her love’s supreme sake,
Life and life’s love, pleasure and praise and rest,
      And went forth bare; but thou,
      So much once richer, and now
Poorer than all these, more than these be blest;
   Poorer so much, by so much given,
Than who gives earth for heaven’s sake, not for earth’s sake heaven.

5

      Somewhat could each soul save,
      What thing soever it gave,
But thine, mother, what has thy soul kept back?
      None of thine all, not one,
      To serve thee and be thy son,
Feed with love all thy days, lest one day lack;
   All thy whole life’s love, thine heart’s whole,
Thou hast given as who gives gladly, O thou the supreme soul.

      The heart’s pure flesh and blood,
      The heaven thy motherhood,
The live lips, the live eyes, that lived on thee;
      The hands that clove with sweet
      Blind clutch to thine, the feet
That felt on earth their first way to thy knee;
   The little laughter of mouths milk-fed,
Now open again to feed on dust among the dead;

7

      The fair, strong, young men’s strength,
      Light of life-days and length,
And glory of earth seen under and stars above,
      And years that bring to tame
      Now the wild falcon fame,
Now, to stroke smooth, the dove-white breast of love;
   The life unlived, the unsown seeds,
Suns unbeholden, songs unsung, and undone deeds.

8

      Therefore shall man’s love be
      As an own son to thee,
And the world’s worship of thee for a child;
      All thine own land as one
      New-born, a nursing son,
All thine own people a new birth undefiled;
   And all the unborn Italian time,
And all its glory, and all its works, thy seed sublime.

      That henceforth no man’s breath,
      Saying “Italy,” but saith
In that most sovereign word thine equal name;
      Nor can one speak of thee
      But he saith “Italy,”
Seeing in two suns one co-eternal flame;
   One heat, one heaven, one heart, one fire,
One light, one love, one benediction, one desire.

10

      Blest above praise and prayer
      And incense of men’s air,
Thy place is higher than where such voices rise
      As in men’s temples make
      Music for some vain sake,
This God’s or that God’s, in one weary wise;
   Thee the soul silent, the shut heart,
The locked lips of the spirit praise thee that thou art.

11

      Yea, for man’s whole life’s length,
      And with man’s whole soul’s strength,
We praise thee, O holy, and bless thee, O mother of lights;
      And send forth as on wings
      The world’s heart’s thanksgivings,
Song-birds to sing thy days through and thy nights;
   And wrap thee around and arch thee above
With the air of benediction and the heaven of love.

      And toward thee our unbreathed words
      Fly speechless, winged as birds,
As the Indian flock, children of Paradise,
      The winged things without feet,
      Fed with God’s dew for meat,
That live in the air and light of the utter skies;
   So fleet, so flying a footless flight,
With wings for feet love seeks thee, to partake thy sight.

13

      Love like a clear sky spread
      Bends over thy loved head,
As a new heaven bends over a new-born earth,
      When the old night’s womb is great
      With young stars passionate
And fair new planets fiery-fresh from birth;
   And moon-white here, there hot like Mars,
Souls that are worlds shine on thee, spirits that are stars.

14

      Till the whole sky burns through
      With heaven’s own heart-deep hue,
With passion-coloured glories of lit souls;
      And thine above all names
      Writ highest with lettering flames
Lightens, and all the old starriest aureoles
   And all the old holiest memories wane,
And the old names of love’s chosen, found in thy sight vain.

      And crowned heads are discrowned,
      And stars sink without sound,
And love’s self for thy love’s sake waxes pale
      Seeing from his storied skies
      In what new reverent wise
Thee Rome’s most highest, her sovereign daughters, hail;
   Thee Portia, thee Veturia grey,
Thee Arria, thee Cornelia, Roman more than they.

16

      Even all these as all we
      Subdue themselves to thee,
Bow their heads haloed, quench their fiery fame;
      Seen through dim years divine,
      Their faint lights feminine
Sink, then spring up rekindled from thy flame;
   Fade, then reflower and reillume
From thy fresh spring their wintering age with new-blown bloom.

17

      To thy much holier head
      Even theirs, the holy and dead,
Bow themselves each one from her heavenward height;
      Each in her shining turn,
      All tremble toward thee and yearn
To melt in thine their consummated light;
   Till from day’s Capitolian dome
One glory of many glories lighten upon Rome.

      Hush thyself, song, and cease,
      Close, lips, and hold your peace;
What help hast thou, what part have ye herein?
      But you, with sweet shut eyes,
      Heart-hidden memories,
Dreams and dumb thoughts that keep what things have been
   Silent, and pure of all words said,
Praise without song the living, without dirge the dead.

19

      Thou, strengthless in these things,
      Song, fold thy feebler wings,
And as a pilgrim go forth girt and shod,
      And where the new graves are,
      And where the sunset star,
To the pure spirit of man that men call God,
   To the high soul of things, that is
Made of men’s heavenlier hopes and mightier memories;

20

      To the elements that make
      For the soul’s living sake
This raiment of dead things, of shadow and trance,
      That give us chance and time
      Wherein to aspire and climb
And set our life’s work higher than time or chance
   The old sacred elements, that give
The breath of life to days that die, to deeds that live;

      To them, veiled gods and great,
      There bow thee and dedicate
The speechless spirit in these thy weak words hidden;
      And mix thy reverent breath
      With holier air of death,
At the high feast of sorrow a guest unbidden,
   Till with divine triumphal tears
Thou fill men’s eyes who listen with a heart that hears.

γα Γα, μα Γα, βοὰν
φοβερδν ὰπότρεπε.

Æsch. Supp. 890.

CHORUS

I am she that made thee lovely with my beauty
      From north to south:
Mine, the fairest lips, took first the fire of duty
      From thine own mouth.
Mine, the fairest eyes, sought first thy laws and knew them
      Truths undefiled;
Mine, the fairest hands, took freedom first into them,
      A weanling child.
By my light, now he lies sleeping, seen above him
      Where none sees other;
By my dead that loved and living men that love him;
   (Cho.)  Hear us, O mother.

ITALY

I am she that was the light of thee enkindled
      When Greece grew dim;
She whose life grew up with man’s free life, and dwindled
      With wane of him.
She that once by sword and once by word imperial
      Struck bright thy gloom;
And a third time, casting off these years funereal,
      Shall burst thy tomb.
By that bond ‘twixt thee and me whereat affrighted
      Thy tyrants fear us;
By that hope and this remembrance reunited;
   (Cho.)  O mother, hear us.

I am she that set my seal upon the nameless
      West worlds of seas;
And my sons as brides took unto them the tameless
      Hesperides.
Till my sins and sons through sinless lands dispersèd,
      With red flame shod,
Made accurst the name of man, and thrice accursèd
      The name of God.
Lest for those past fires the fires of my repentance
      Hell’s fume yet smother,
Now my blood would buy remission of my sentence;
   (Cho.)  Hear us, O mother.

FRANCE

I am she that was thy sign and standard-bearer,
      Thy voice and cry;
She that washed thee with her blood and left thee fairer,
      The same was I.
Were not these the hands that raised thee fallen and fed thee,
      These hands defiled?
Was not I thy tongue that spake, thine eye that led thee,
      Not I thy child?
By the darkness on our dreams, and the dead errors
      Of dead times near us;
By the hopes that hang around thee, and the terrors;
   (Cho.)  O mother, hear us.

I am she whose hands are strong and her eyes blinded
      And lips athirst
Till upon the night of nations many-minded
      One bright day burst:
Till the myriad stars be molten into one light,
      And that light thine;
Till the soul of man be parcel of the sunlight,
      And thine of mine.
By the snows that blanch not him nor cleanse from slaughter
      Who slays his brother;
By the stains and by the chains on me thy daughter;
   (Cho.)  Hear us, O mother.

SWITZERLAND

I am she that shews on mighty limbs and maiden
      Nor chain nor stain;
For what blood can touch these hands with gold unladen,
      These feet what chain?
By the surf of spears one shieldless bosom breasted
      And was my shield,
Till the plume-plucked Austrian vulture-heads twin-crested
      Twice drenched the field;
By the snows and souls untrampled and untroubled
      That shine to cheer us,
Light of those to these responsive and redoubled;
   (Cho.)  O mother, hear us.

I am she beside whose forest-hidden fountains
      Slept freedom armed,
By the magic born to music in my mountains
      Heart-chained and charmed.
By those days the very dream whereof delivers
      My soul from wrong;
By the sounds that make of all my ringing rivers
      None knows what song;
By the many tribes and names of my division
      One from another;
By the single eye of sun-compelling vision;
   (Cho.)  Hear us, O mother.

ENGLAND

I am she that was and was not of thy chosen,
      Free, and not free;
She that fed thy springs, till now her springs are frozen;
      Yet I am she.
By the sea that clothed and sun that saw me splendid
      And fame that crowned,
By the song-fires and the sword-fires mixed and blended
      That robed me round;
By the star that Milton’s soul for Shelley’s lighted,
      Whose rays insphere us;
By the beacon-bright Republic far-off sighted;
   (Cho.)  O mother, hear us.

      I am that which began;
         Out of me the years roll;
      Out of me God and man;
         I am equal and whole;
God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul.

      Before ever land was,
         Before ever the sea,
      Or soft hair of the grass,
         Or fair limbs of the tree,
Or the flesh-coloured fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me.

      First life on my sources
         First drifted and swam;
      Out of me are the forces
         That save it or damn;
Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird; before God was, I am.

      Beside or above me
         Nought is there to go;
      Love or unlove me,
         Unknow me or know,
I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow.

      I am that thing which blesses
         My spirit elate;
      That which caresses
         With hands uncreate
My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate.

      But what thing dost thou now,
         Looking Godward, to cry
      “I am I, thou art thou,
         I am low, thou art high”?
I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou art I.

      I the grain and the furrow,
         The plough-cloven clod
      And the ploughshare drawn thorough,
         The germ and the sod,
The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God.

      Hast thou known how I fashioned thee,
         Child, underground?
      Fire that impassioned thee,
         Iron that bound,
Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found?

      Who hath given, who hath sold it thee,
         Knowledge of me?
      Hath the wilderness told it thee?
         Hast thou learnt of the sea?
Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee?

      Have I set such a star
         To show light on thy brow
      That thou sawest from afar
         What I show to thee now?
Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou?

      What is here, dost thou know it?
         What was, hast thou known?
      Prophet nor poet
         Nor tripod nor throne
Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone.

      Mother, not maker,
         Born, and not made;
      Though her children forsake her,
         Allured or afraid,
Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all that have prayed.

      I am in thee to save thee,
         As my soul in thee saith;
      Give thou as I gave thee,
         Thy life-blood and breath,
Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death,

      Be the ways of thy giving
         As mine were to thee;
      The free life of thy living,
         Be the gift of it free;
Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee to me.

      O children of banishment,
         Souls overcast,
      Were the lights ye see vanish meant
         Alway to last,
Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast.

      I that saw where ye trod
         The dim paths of the night
      Set the shadow called God
         In your skies to give light;
But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight.

      But the Gods of your fashion
         That take and that give,
      In their pity and passion
         That scourge and forgive,
They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall die and not live.

      My own blood is what stanches
         The wounds in my bark;
      Stars caught in my branches
         Make day of the dark,
And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark.

      Where dead ages hide under
         The live roots of the tree,
      In my darkness the thunder
         Makes utterance of me;
In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea.

      That noise is of Time,
         As his feathers are spread
      And his feet set to climb
         Through the boughs overhead,
And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread.

      All sounds of all changes,
         All shadows and lights
      On the world’s mountain-ranges
         And stream-riven heights,
Whose tongue is the wind’s tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights;

      All forms of all faces,
         All works of all hands
      In unsearchable places
         Of time-stricken lands,
All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands.

      Though sore be my burden
         And more than ye know,
      And my growth have no guerdon
         But only to grow,
Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below.

      These too have their part in me,
         As I too in these;
      Such fire is at heart in me,
         Such sap is this tree’s,
Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas.

      And the sound of them springing
         And smell of their shoots
      Were as warmth and sweet singing
         And strength to my roots;
And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits.

      I bid you but be;
         I have need not of prayer;
      I have need of you free
         As your mouths of mine air;
That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair.

      More fair than strange fruit is
         Of faiths ye espouse;
      In me only the root is
         That blooms in your boughs;
Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows.

      In the darkening and whitening
         Abysses adored,
      With dayspring and lightning
         For lamp and for sword,
God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord.

      Lo, winged with world’s wonders,
         With miracles shod,
      With the fires of his thunders
         For raiment and rod,
God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God.

      For his twilight is come on him,
         His anguish is here;
      And his spirits gaze dumb on him,
         Grown grey from his fear;
And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year.

      Thought made him and breaks him,
         Truth slays and forgives;
      But to you, as time takes him,
         This new thing it gives,
Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives.

      For truth only is living,
         Truth only is whole,
      And the love of his giving
         Man’s polestar and pole;
Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul.

Here, down between the dusty trees,
   At this lank edge of haggard wood,
Women with labour-loosened knees,
   With gaunt backs bowed by servitude,
Stop, shift their loads, and pray, and fare
Forth with souls easier for the prayer.

The suns have branded black, the rains
   Striped grey this piteous God of theirs;
The face is full of prayers and pains,
   To which they bring their pains and prayers;
Lean limbs that shew the labouring bones,
And ghastly mouth that gapes and groans.

God of this grievous people, wrought
   After the likeness of their race,
By faces like thine own besought,
   Thine own blind helpless eyeless face,
I too, that have nor tongue nor knee
For prayer, I have a word to thee.

It was for this then, that thy speech
   Was blown about the world in flame
And men’s souls shot up out of reach
   Of fear or lust or thwarting shame—
That thy faith over souls should pass
As sea-winds burning the grey grass?

It was for this, that men should make
   Thy name a fetter on men’s necks,
Poor men’s made poorer for thy sake,
   And women’s withered out of sex?
It was for this, that slaves should be,
Thy word was passed to set men free?

The nineteenth wave of the ages rolls
   Now deathward since thy death and birth.
Hast thou fed full men’s starved-out souls?
   Hast thou brought freedom upon earth?
Or are there less oppressions done
In this wild world under the sun?

Nay, if indeed thou be not dead,
   Before thy terrene shrine be shaken,
Look down, turn usward, bow thine head;
   O thou that wast of God forsaken,
Look on thine household here, and see
These that have not forsaken thee.

Thy faith is fire upon their lips,
   Thy kingdom golden in their hands;
They scourge us with thy words for whips,
   They brand us with thy words for brands;
The thirst that made thy dry throat shrink
To their moist mouths commends the drink.

The blinding buffets on thine head
   On their crowned heads confirm the crown;
Thy scourging dyes their raiment red,
   And with thy bands they fasten down
For burial in the blood-bought field
The nations by thy stripes unhealed.

With iron for thy linen bands
   And unclean cloths for winding-sheet
They bind the people’s nail-pierced hands,
   They hide the people’s nail-pierced feet;
And what man or what angel known
Shall roll back the sepulchral stone?

But these have not the rich man’s grave
   To sleep in when their pain is done.
These were not fit for God to save.
   As naked hell-fire is the sun
In their eyes living, and when dead
These have not where to lay their head.

They have no tomb to dig, and hide;
   Earth is not theirs, that they should sleep.
On all these tombless crucified
   No lovers’ eyes have time to weep.
So still, for all man’s tears and creeds,
The sacred body hangs and bleeds.

And priests against the mouth divine
   Push their sponge full of poison yet
And bitter blood for myrrh and wine,
   And on the same reed is it set
Wherewith before they buffeted
The people’s disanointed head.

O sacred head, O desecrate,
   O labour-wounded feet and hands,
O blood poured forth in pledge to fate
   Of nameless lives in divers lands,
O slain and spent and sacrificed
People, the grey-grown speechless Christ!

Is there a gospel in the red
   Old witness of thy wide-mouthed wounds?
From thy blind stricken tongueless head
   What desolate evangel sounds
A hopeless note of hope deferred?
What word, if there be any word?

O son of man, beneath man’s feet
   Cast down, O common face of man
Whereon all blows and buffets meet,
   O royal, O republican
Face of the people bruised and dumb
And longing till thy kingdom come!

No fragment of it save the name
   They leave thee for a crown of scorns
Wherewith to mock thy naked shame
   And forehead bitten through with thorns
And, marked with sanguine sweat and tears,
The stripes of eighteen hundred years

And we seek yet if God or man
   Can loosen thee as Lazarus,
Bid thee rise up republican
   And save thyself and all of us;
But no disciple’s tongue can say
When thou shalt take our sins away.

And mouldering now and hoar with moss
   Between us and the sunlight swings
The phantom of a Christless cross
   Shadowing the sheltered heads of kings
And making with its moving shade
The souls of harmless men afraid.

It creaks and rocks to left and right
   Consumed of rottenness and rust,
Worm-eaten of the worms of night,
   Dead as their spirits who put trust,
Round its base muttering as they sit,
In the time-cankered name of it.

Set not thine hand unto their cross.
   Give not thy soul up sacrificed.
Change not the gold of faith for dross
   Of Christian creeds that spit on Christ.
Let not thy tree of freedom be
Regrafted from that rotting tree.

This dead God here against my face
   Hath help for no man; who hath seen
The good works of it, or such grace
   As thy grace in it, Nazarene,
As that from thy live lips which ran
For man’s sake, O thou son of man?

The tree of faith ingraffed by priests
   Puts its foul foliage out above thee,
And round it feed man-eating beasts
   Because of whom we dare not love thee;
Though hearts reach back and memories ache,
We cannot praise thee for their sake.

O hidden face of man, whereover
   The years have woven a viewless veil,
If thou wast verily man’s lover,
   What did thy love or blood avail?
Thy blood the priests make poison of,
And in gold shekels coin thy love.

When we would see thee man, and know
   What heart thou hadst toward men indeed,
Lo, thy blood-blackened altars; lo,
   The lips of priests that pray and feed
While their own hell’s worm curls and licks
The poison of the crucifix.

Thou bad’st let children come to thee;
   What children now but curses come?
What manhood in that God can be
   Who sees their worship, and is dumb?
No soul that lived, loved, wrought, and died,
Is this their carrion crucified.

Nay, if their God and thou be one,
   If thou and this thing be the same,
Thou shouldst not look upon the sun;
   The sun grows haggard at thy name.
Come down, be done with, cease, give o’er;
Hide thyself, strive not, be no more.

At the chill high tide of the night,
   At the turn of the fluctuant hours,
When the waters of time are at height,
In a vision arose on my sight
   The kingdoms of earth and the powers.

In a dream without lightening of eyes
   I saw them, children of earth,
Nations and races arise,
Each one after his wise,
   Signed with the sign of his birth.

Sound was none of their feet,
   Light was none of their faces;
In their lips breath was not, or heat,
But a subtle murmur and sweet
   As of water in wan waste places.

Pale as from passionate years,
   Years unassuaged of desire,
Sang they soft in mine ears,
Crowned with jewels of tears,
   Girt with girdles of fire.

In the manifold sound remote,
   In the molten murmur of song,
There was but a sharp sole note
Alive on the night and afloat,
   The cry of the world’s heart’s wrong.

As the sea in the strait sea-caves,
   The sound came straitened and strange;
A noise of the rending of graves,
A tidal thunder of waves,
   The music of death and of change.

“We have waited so long,” they say,
   “For a sound of the God, for a breath,
For a ripple of the refluence of day,
For the fresh bright wind of the fray,
   For the light of the sunrise of death.

“We have prayed not, we, to be strong,
   To fulfil the desire of our eyes;
—Howbeit they have watched for it long,
Watched, and the night did them wrong,
   Yet they say not of day, shall it rise?

“They are fearful and feeble with years,
   Yet they doubt not of day if it be;
Yea, blinded and beaten with tears,
Yea, sick with foresight of fears,
   Yet a little, and hardly, they see.

“We pray not, we, to behold
   The latter august new birth,
The young day’s purple and gold,
And divine, and rerisen as of old,
   The sun-god Freedom on earth.

“Peace, and world’s honour, and fame,
   We have sought after none of these things;
The light of a life like flame
Passing, the storm of a name
   Shaking the strongholds of kings:

“Nor, fashioned of fire and of air,
   The splendour that burns on his head
Who was chiefest in ages that were,
Whose breath blew palaces bare,
   Whose eye shone tyrannies dead:

“All these things in your day
   Ye shall see, O our sons, and shall hold
Surely; but we, in the grey
Twilight, for one thing we pray,
   In that day though our memories be cold:

“To feel on our brows as we wait
   An air of the morning, a breath
From the springs of the east, from the gate
Whence freedom issues, and fate,
   Sorrow, and triumph, and death

“For alone of herself and her right
   She takes, and alone gives grace:
And the colours of things lose light,
And the forms, in the limitless white
   Splendour of space without space:

“And the blossom of man from his tomb
   Yearns open, the flower that survives;
And the shadows of changes consume
In the colourless passionate bloom
   Of the live light made of our lives:

“Seeing each life given is a leaf
   Of the manifold multiform flower,
And the least among these, and the chief,
As an ear in the red-ripe sheaf
   Stored for the harvesting hour.

“O spirit of man, most holy,
   The measure of things and the root,
In our summers and winters a lowly
Seed, putting forth of them slowly
   Thy supreme blossom and fruit;

“In thy sacred and perfect year,
   The souls that were parcel of thee
In the labour and life of us here
Shall be rays of thy sovereign sphere,
   Springs of thy motion shall be.

“There, whosoever had light,
   And, having, for men’s sake gave;
All that warred against night;
All that were found in the fight
   Swift to be slain and to save;

“Undisbranched of the storms that disroot us,
   Of the lures that enthrall unenticed;
The names that exalt and transmute us;
The blood-bright splendour of Brutus,
   The snow-bright splendour of Christ.

“There all chains are undone;
   Day there seems but as night;
Spirit and sense are as one
In the light not of star nor of sun;
   Liberty there is the light.

“She, sole mother and maker,
   Stronger than sorrow, than strife;
Deathless, though death overtake her;
Faithful, though faith should forsake her;
   Spirit, and saviour, and life.”