Studies in Song, A Century of Roundels, Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets, The Heptalogia, Etc | Page 7

of prophet's pride, More of life than all the gulfs of death may swallow,?More of flame than all the might of night may hide.?Though the whole dark age were loud and void and hollow, Strength of trust were here, and help for all souls tried, And a token from the flight of that strange swallow[6] Whose migration still is toward the wintry side.
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Never came such token for divine solution?From the oraculous live darkness whence of yore?Ancient faith sought word of help and retribution,?Truth to lighten doubt, a sign to go before.?Never so baptismal waters of ablution?Bathed the brows of exile on so stern a shore,?Where the lightnings of the sea of revolution?Flashed across them ere its thunders yet might roar.
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By the lightning's light of present revelation?Shown, with epic thunder as from skies that frown,?Clothed in darkness as of darkling expiation,?Rose a vision of dead, stars and suns gone down,?Whence of old fierce fire devoured the star-struck nation, Till its wrath and woe lit red the raging town,?Now made glorious with his statue's crowning station,?Where may never gleam again a viler crown.
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King, with time for throne and all the years for pages, He shall reign though all thrones else be overhurled, Served of souls that have his living words for wages,?Crowned of heaven each dawn that leaves his brows impearled; Girt about with robes unrent of storm that rages,?Robes not wrought with hands, from no loom's weft unfurled; All the praise of all earth's tongues in all earth's ages, All the love of all men's hearts in all the world.
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Yet what hand shall carve the soul or cast the spirit, Mould the face of fame, bid glory's feature glow??Who bequeath for eyes of ages hence to inherit?Him, the Master, whom love knows not if it know??Scarcely perfect praise of men man's work might merit, Scarcely bid such aim to perfect stature grow,?Were his hand the hand of Phidias who shall rear it,?And his soul the very soul of Angelo.
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Michael, awful angel of the world's last session,?Once on earth, like him, with fire of suffering tried, Thine it were, if man's it were, without transgression, Thine alone, to take this toil upon thy pride.?Thine, whose heart was great against the world's oppression, Even as his whose word is lamp and staff and guide:?Advocate for man, untired of intercession,?Pleads his voice for slaves whose lords his voice defied.
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Earth, with all the kings and thralls on earth, below it, Heaven alone, with all the worlds in heaven, above,?Let his likeness rise for suns and stars to know it,?High for men to worship, plain for men to love:?Brow that braved the tides which fain would overflow it, Lip that gave the challenge, hand that flung the glove; Comforter and prophet, Paraclete and poet,?Soul whose emblems are an eagle and a dove.
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Sun, that hast not seen a loftier head wax hoary,?Earth, which hast not shown the sun a nobler birth,?Time, that hast not on thy scroll defiled and gory?One man's name writ brighter in its whole wide girth, Witness, till the final years fulfil their story,?Till the stars break off the music of their mirth,?What among the sons of men was this man's glory,?What the vesture of his soul revealed on earth.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _La Piti�� Supr��me._ 1879.
[2] _Religions et Religion._ 1880.
[3] _L'Ane._ 1880.
[4] _Les Quatre Vents de l'Esprit._ I. _Le Livre satirique._ II. _Le Livre dramatique._ III. _Le Livre lyrique._ IV. _Le Livre ��pique._ 1881.
[5] _Les Deux Trouvailles de Gallus._ I. _Margarita, com��die._ II. _Esca, drame._
[6]
Je suis une hirondelle ��trange, car j'��migre
Du c?t�� de l'hiver.
_Le Livre Lyrique_, liii.
EUTHANATOS
IN MEMORY OF MRS. THELLUSSON
Forth of our ways and woes,?Forth of the winds and snows,?A white soul soaring goes,?Winged like a dove:?So sweet, so pure, so clear,?So heavenly tempered here,?Love need not hope or fear her changed above:
Ere dawned her day to die,?So heavenly, that on high?Change could not glorify?Nor death refine her:?Pure gold of perfect love,?On earth like heaven's own dove,?She cannot wear, above, a smile diviner.
Her voice in heaven's own quire?Can sound no heavenlier lyre?Than here: no purer fire?Her soul can soar:?No sweeter stars her eyes?In unimagined skies?Beyond our sight can rise than here before.
Hardly long years had shed?Their shadows on her head:?Hardly we think her dead,?Who hardly thought her?Old: hardly can believe?The grief our hearts receive?And wonder while they grieve, as wrong were wrought her.
But though strong grief be strong?No word or thought of wrong?May stain the trembling song,?Wring the bruised heart,?That sounds or sighs its faint?Low note of love, nor taint?Grief for so sweet a saint, when such depart.
A saint whose perfect soul,?With perfect love for goal,?Faith hardly might control,?Creeds might not harden:?A flower more splendid far?Than the most radiant star?Seen here of all that are in God's own garden.
Surely the stars we see?Rise and relapse as we,?And change and set, may be?But shadows too:?But spirits