Chapter VI

He pauses, still he looks afar.
He still beholds the guiding star,
And dreamlight of a sacred river
O’er his lone eyes seems still to quiver.
Sudden, as if the distant air
Stripped the blue curtain from the skies,
He sees prophetic nature bare,—
When, as with far-off voice, he cries—
‘Lo! a face to heaven in agony gleaming,
Stained of sorrow, but soil-less of sin,
Sweat that is blood breaking and streaming
From brows that are throbbing of anguish within,—
Praying for those that do strip Him and scourge Him
As a cross on His quivering shoulders they place.
’Neath its burden He sinks while they mock Him, they urge Him,
They crown Him with thorns, they spit in His face.
They are lifting Him, bruising Him, piercing Him, nailing Him
To the cross, that is dyed in a crimson flood.
See, the sun hides his head, see the vapour enveiling him,
Hark, the earth and the skies in the darkness bewailing Him
Who dieth for those that are shedding His blood.’

VII

He starts, a hand is on his brow.
He looks at Christ in meek surprise,
Tears gather in his new-lit eyes;
‘’Tis He, the crucified!’ he cries:
‘Yes, I behold the Saviour now!’
The adoring people kneel around;
The healed one sinks on the hallowed ground,
Then goes his way in silence and in awe;
For his unsullied eyes had seen
The sight that from the first had been,
The sight that nature like a prophet saw.

THE SNAKE CHARMER

I

The forest rears on lifted arms
Its leafy dome whence verdurous light
Shakes through the shady depths and warms
Proud trunk and stealthy parasite,
There where those cruel coils enclasp
The trees they strangle in their grasp.

II

An old man creeps from out the woods,
Breaking the vine’s entangling spell;
He thrids the jungle’s solitudes
O’er bamboos rotting where they fell;
Slow down the tiger’s path he wends
Where at the pool the jungle ends.

III

No moss-greened alley tells the trace
Of his lone step, no sound is stirred,
Even when his tawny hands displace
The boughs, that backward sweep unheard:
His way as noiseless as the trail
Of the swift snake and pilgrim snail.

IV

The old snake-charmer,—once he played
Soft music for the serpent’s ear,
But now his cunning hand is stayed;
He knows the hour of death is near.
And all that live in brake and bough,
All know the brand is on his brow.

V

Yet where his soul is he must go:
He crawls along from tree to tree.
The old snake-charmer, doth he know
If snake or beast of prey he be?
Bewildered at the pool he lies
And sees as through a serpent’s eyes.

VI

Weeds wove with white-flowered lily crops
Drink of the pool, and serpents hie
To the thin brink as noonday drops,
And in the froth-daubed rushes lie.
There rests he now with fastened breath
’Neath a kind sun to bask in death.

VII

The pool is bright with glossy dyes
And cast-up bubbles of decay:
A green death-leaven overlies
Its mottled scum, where shadows play
As the snake’s hollow coil, fresh shed,
Rolls in the wind across its bed.

VIII

No more the wily note is heard
From his full flute—the riving air
That tames the snake, decoys the bird,
Worries the she-wolf from her lair.
Fain would he bid its parting breath
Drown in his ears the voice of death.

IX

Still doth his soul’s vague longing skim
The pool beloved: he hears the hiss
That siffles at the sedgy rim,
Recalling days of former bliss,
And the death-drops, that fall in showers,
Seem honied dews from shady flowers.

X

There is a rustle of the breeze
And twitter of the singing bird;
He snatches at the melodies
And his faint lips again are stirred:
The olden sounds are in his ears;
But still the snake its crest uprears.

XI

His eyes are swimming in the mist
That films the earth like serpent’s breath;
And now—as if a serpent hissed—
The husky whisperings of Death
Fill ear and brain—he looks around—
Serpents seem matted o’er the ground.

XII

Soon visions of past joys bewitch
His crafty soul; his hands would set
Death’s snare, while now his fingers twitch
At tasselled reed as ’twere his net.
But his thin lips no longer fill
The woods with song; his flute is still.

XIII

Those lips still quaver to the flute,
But fast the life-tide ebbs away;
Those lips now quaver and are mute,
But nature throbs in breathless play:
Birds are in open song, the snakes
Are watching in the silent brakes.

XIV

In sudden fear of snares unseen
The birds like crimson sunset swarm,
All gold and purple, red and green,
And seek each other for the charm.
Lizards dart up the feathery trees
Like shadows of a rainbow breeze.

XV

The wildered birds again have rushed
Into the charm,—it is the hour
When the shrill forest-note is hushed,
And they obey the serpent’s power,—
Drawn, to its gaze with troubled whirr,
As by the thread of falconer.

XVI

As ’twere to feed, on slanting wings
They drop within the serpent’s glare:
Eyes flashing fire in burning rings
Which spread into the dazzled air;
They flutter in the glittering coils;
The charmer dreads the serpent’s toils.

XVII

While Music swims away in death
Man’s spell is passing to his slaves:
The snake feeds on the charmer’s breath,
The vulture screams, the parrot raves,
The lone hyena laughs and howls,
The tiger from the jungle growls.

XVIII

Then mounts the eagle—flame-flecked folds
Belt its proud plumes; a feather falls:
He hears the death-cry, he beholds
The king-bird in the serpent’s thralls,
He looks with terror on the feud,—
And the sun shines through dripping blood.

XIX

The deadly spell a moment gone—
Birds, from a distant Paradise,
Strike the winged signal and have flown,
Trailing rich hues through azure skies:
The serpent falls; like demon wings
The far-out branching cedar swings.

XX

The wood swims round; the pool and skies
Have met; the death-drops down that cheek
Fall faster; for the serpent’s eyes
Grow human, and the charmer’s seek.
A gaze like man’s directs the dart
Which now is buried at his heart.

XXI

The monarch of the world is cold:
The charm he bore has passed away:
The serpent gathers up its fold
To wind about its human prey.
The red mouth darts a dizzy sting,
And clenches the eternal ring.

PYTHAGORAS

I

’Twas not the hour of death the Master feared:
He oft had died before, his soul had passed
Through many moulds, as each new cycle neared
Hoping the Golden Day had come at last.

II

But like a giant ’neath the weight of age
Hope was bowed down, and oft had ceased to see
Among the spheres the looked for heritage
Where rest the pure from earth’s illusions free.

III

Whither doth this metempsychosis tend?
Doubt stirs the heavy question in his breast.
All that begins is toiling towards its end;
Oblivion hath for all its day of rest.

IV

And when a universe of death absorbs
Into its hungry vortex all that is:
The compact colonies of settled orbs,
The untamed meteors of the free abyss;

V

And when, at length, the lamp of day is spent,
And the charred air of night supplants the skies,
What were the soul without its tenement,—
Without these feeling hands, these seeing eyes?

VI

Even the blest dawn he once had hoped to find
May rise while he in darkness dwells below;
Yes, all may fail him now; the troubled mind
May end at last, and not its ending know.

VII

Such were his thoughts, and while his death hour grew
They pressed into his heart such poignant pangs
As even the lordliest intellect subdue
When life, yet wavering, in the balance hangs.

VIII

’Tis past: A cycle’s lustres have run out,
And his unquickened soul in ashes sleeps,
Perturbed no longer by the wasting doubt,
Weak as a babe ere in the womb it leaps;

IX

Still as a vessel stranded by the tide
In shallows whereunto no waters drift,
Looming at anchor on its mouldering side
That neither winds disturb nor billows lift.

X

Yet throes half-stir the drowsings of the grave,
As when one turns in sleep with heavy sense
That what suspended being he may have
Is better, yet awhile, with Providence.

XI

But all is like the passing of a breath.
No eager promptings snatch the loosened thread
Wherein is meshed the memory of death:
He knows himself, but not that he is dead.

XII

Another cycle bears the cumbrous night
Unbroken, save as funeral clouds may roll
And for a moment cross the path of light:
So shines the ethereal darkness of his soul.

XIII

Still through these mists of death the cycles shone,—
His soul benumbed, in utter silence hushed,
Advancing time-like through oblivion,
And pace for pace with all that o’er him rushed,—

XIV

When to his grave a sense of nature came,
But with no conscious meaning or surprise:
’Twas the old flutter of the dying flame,
Tremulousness of being without eyes.

XV

At last a voice, familiar as to seem
His own, heard in his sleep and heeded not,
Broke through the patient whisper of his dream,
Remembered but to be as soon forgot.

XVI

It presages some mighty morrow near
When his long baffled soul once more shall rise:
The muffled cycles fall upon his ear,
And his dust flutters with the centuries.

XVII

Awake, Pythagoras, it seems to say,—
The looked-for morn is breaking o’er the earth:
It grows, it brightens to the perfect day;
Behold man’s resurrectionary birth!

XVIII

His thoughts take shape, his pent-up senses move,
His soul looks out from that abysmal sleep.
Lo! shadows of the living world above
Before his eyes in dreamy pageant sweep.

XIX

And in the midst there shone a god-like youth,
Who on his brow the Crown of Sorrow wore,
And there was meekness, innocence, and truth;—
Eidolon of his highest hope of yore.

XX

Hath it then come at last, the world of peace?
Hath he awakened to that ampler life
Where hate and lust of blood shall ever cease,
And all the bitter days of human strife?

XXI

The world is hushed: must then the cycles end
That ever deepen his immortal tomb?
The wondrous ladder must he re-ascend
To truths revolving round a virgin womb?

XXII

Even so it seems when, hark! the upper air
Rings to the battle’s rage—the soldier’s tread
Echoes above his tomb! In dark despair
He turns his face unto the silent dead.

XXIII

The Master sleeps—the ages onward roll—
O twice nine stormy cycles since o’erpast!
Bore they through eddying lives and deaths a soul
Still dreaming towards its Golden Day at last?

XXIV

The heavens are as they were, the sun, unworn,
Seems on the blue of yesterday to rest,
And drops below; but when shall come the morn
He dreamt of, when shall break that morrow blest?

THE FIRST SAVED

I

Lucilla lives in yon half-hidden star
Bowered in a dreamy, soft-skied, watery vale,
Where angels gather from bright worlds afar,
To see her face, and listen to her tale.

II

As if all sunset revelled in the air,
The rosy clouds float o’er her paradise,—
Home of the once lone daughter of despair
Who prayed through tears with ever downcast eyes.

III

The lucent hills pant in the azure beams,
Behind empurpled steeps that blend below
With trembling woods and crystal-bearing streams,
And in the sky-paved water-mirrors glow.

IV

As rising stars entangle in their spheres
All the blue ether round, her look of thought
Hangs in heaven’s light, where her sad life appears
A sunless vision in new sunshine wrought.

V

There doth she stand, bliss-stricken as by fear.
On one soft hand she rests her chin and cheek,
Paling with rapture ere the blush appear;
And lips in tremors whisper that would speak.

VI

‘Yes, I am here, and Heaven is undefiled!
This sinless face and these all-loving eyes
God gave me when I was a little child,
Because I was to be in Paradise.

VII

‘I heard a voice and slavery’s loosened bond
Fell from my soul, awaking me to die;
I looked into death’s mirror and beyond
I saw these halls of immortality.

VIII

‘My wounded heart lay in this bosom dead
Ere it had loved—yet oft as I did pray
That these wan hands might labour for their bread,
Hope only came to prayer but did not stay.

IX

‘Sin compassed me, it was my deadly fate;
Yet lovely visions in the darkness came,
And I fled trembling to the Temple’s gate
But durst not cross the threshold for my shame.

X

‘While on the Temple’s steps I sat in tears,
One came and spoke: I gazed and I adored!
Then did a voice that only woman hears
Whisper within: I listened, self-abhorred.

XI

‘’Twas He whose image visited my sleep.
But still He spake to me in words that gave
A world, and had soul-echoes clear and deep
Which widened ever like the circling wave.

XII

‘His image grew before my wondering mind—
His, ’mid whose many griefs my life began.
Enrapt I gazed, until my eyes were blind,
On Him who in His pity dies for man.

XIII

‘When the blest vision ceased, my eyes would droop
And in great dreams that holy Being meet;
Then would He clothe me, lowly would He stoop,
And with His hands anoint my weary feet.

XIV

‘Thenceforth He was the rock that safely drew
My heart to shelter, as the gentle shore
Receives the broken wave: to Him it flew
And the lulled sorrow beat on me no more.

XV

‘Then o’er me flowed that stream of heavenly grace
Which all my infant innocence restored:
From that glad hour has rested on my face
This happy gaze of one who has adored.

XVI

‘The living Saviour had my heart enthralled!
I saw His face, in His blessed footsteps moved;
And in my dreams His holy word recalled;
I knew not who He was: I only loved.

XVII

‘Then did I but remember things to come,
The reveries of pure delights above;
Yes, to this blissful height my passion clomb,
And sin was silenced in the hush of love.

XVIII

‘In that o’ershadowing trance till death I lay:
Peace weighed upon me like the Saviour’s kiss.
Towards the beloved my eyes would fondly stray
In sleeping rapture and awaking bliss.

XIX

‘Death with dis-shadowed hand had come betimes,
And bore my grave into the open skies.
And then I hearkened to the heavenly chimes
That cheered my soul’s ascent to Paradise.

XX

‘My end seemed consummated in the clouds:
There with the purple morn my slumber broke;
But tempting spirits hovered round in crowds
And gathered like a storm as I awoke.

XXI

‘Upon the Temple’s highest pinnacle
The Saviour stood in glory like the sun.
The rapture of my soul was at the full:
Eternal life had unawares begun.

XXII

‘He from that holy height upon me gazed;
The angels in His glorious presence trod:
With outstretched wings I rushed to them amazed
And flew into the open arms of God.’

REMINISCENCE

I

So you would leave me, little Rose?
Dear child, with all your mother’s ways;
That look she had in girlish days,
The look that with your beauty grows.

II

Oft when you bring her to my mind,
Before my heart has time for pain,
In you she seems to live again,
As though no sorrow were behind.

III

And when that happy, trustful gaze
Meets him you love, yet more I see
Your mother as she looked at me:
It is her own dear, watchful face.

IV

And when he takes your hand in his,
There flits across your lips and eyes
Her own pleased smile of half surprise:
It seems not like departed bliss.

V

Ah! what a heart-locked memory stirs—
I look, ’tis she, and you are gone!
Yes, though so many springs have flown,
Her peace remains, our love is hers.

VI

She sees your arms my neck enclose;
She sees your lips upon my brow.
No truer hour of love than now
Awaits your heart, my happy Rose!

VII

How they come back those days of old!
And now that ’tis your wedding-eve,
Now that for other scenes you leave,
One happy legend shall be told,—

VIII

Told in this home, this sunny vale
That for long years has been our own,
Sacred in days that long have gone
To many another lover’s tale.

IX

It was an hour like this, the sun
Was sinking, yet had far to go:
The richness of his overflow
Down river, wood, and pasture shone.

X

Two lovers in this porch had met
Where often they had met in play:
’Twas on this memorable day—
As though that sun had never set.

XI

These grey-mossed tiles still ’neath it scorch;
The glare and shade still side by side
Aslant the mullioned casements glide
From yon old gable to the porch.

XII

A youth has hurried from these walls—
He stops, as in a day-dream stands:
His shadow with fast-folded hands
As from yon stone sun-dial falls.

XIII

His eyes are full of one loved face
Sunk pallid in her fingers cleft;
The long-loved one who just had left
In timid haste his wild embrace.

XIV

The love that with her childhood grew
Had still to her unruffled clung;
Engaging, playful, ever young,—
And without change was ever new.

XV

Not its glad pastimes she disowns;
He drew her to a higher love;
But while the pale emotion strove
She fled from his impassioned tones.

XVI

Transparent isles of rushes bind
The rivers light with bars of green
That catch the water’s blue between,
To where it darkens in the wind.

XVII

There lies his boat, and now the sun,
Still going westward with the stream,
Appears to tow him on his dream
As they advance in unison.

XVIII

Along the white and yellow meads,
Which buttercup and daisy share,
The crowding cattle idly stare
As he winds through the matted reeds.

XIX

But her loved image fills his mind,
And, ever gazing at him, screens
His eyes from those long-happy scenes,
As he drifts by them, nature-blind.

XX

The white-flowered weed whose tresses float,
Combed by the stream and water-waved,
Seems her bright hair in crystal laved,
Struggling to overtake his boat.

XXI

His sculls drip o’er the glossy wash:
The ripple of the mellow tide
He scarce feels o’er their edges glide;
He lists not for the thrilling plash,

XXII

But thinks, when last the tide he clove,
How bank-side elms before him flew,
And quiet lay the distant view
Of woodland hill where dwelt his love.

XXIII

His memory holds it as the stream
Holds all the shining summer round:
The sky, the woods, the very sound
Of cuckoos chanting in a dream.

XXIV

And how she loved the grey old bridge!
Those arches mirrored deep below,
That meet the pillars row to row,
Quivering from their ruffled ridge—

XXV

Three tunnels open to the skies!
The tasselled mosses as they float,
Now still, now heaving with the boat
That passes while the vision flies.

XXVI

As melt, with all the watery heaven,
Those arches hanging o’er a sky—
So in the quiet of a sigh
The yearnings of his soul seemed riven.

XXVII

The far-off boom of yonder weir
Now rushes down the narrowed day:
Like sirens battling with the spray,
Once came its music to her ear.

XXVIII

The sun now trembles like a ball
Heaven-forged and glittering in its blast;
A pale green halo round him cast—
Half quenched behind the waterfall.

XXIX

White streaks are creeping through the shade;
The moon climbs up the poplar trees:
But a loved form of light he sees,
As if her spirit walked the glade.

XXX

Well might it be, as since hath seemed,—
So holy are the vanished years.
But then her cheeks were under tears:
It was on them the moonlight gleamed.