The Unknown Eros | Page 6

relapse into the void inane,?For thee;?But (treason was't?) for thee and also her.
XII. MAGNA EST VERITAS.
Here, in this little Bay,?Full of tumultuous life and great repose,?Where, twice a day,?The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes,?Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town,?I sit me down.?For want of me the world's course will not fail:?When all its work is done, the lie shall rot;?The truth is great, and shall prevail,?When none cares whether it prevail or not.
XIII. 1867. {29}
In the year of the great crime,?When the false English Nobles and their Jew,?By God demented, slew?The Trust they stood twice pledged to keep from wrong,?One said, Take up thy Song,?That breathes the mild and almost mythic time?Of England's prime!?But I, Ah, me,?The freedom of the few?That, in our free Land, were indeed the free,?Can song renew??Ill singing 'tis with blotting prison-bars,?How high soe'er, betwixt us and the stars;?Ill singing 'tis when there are none to hear;?And days are near?When England shall forget?The fading glow which, for a little while,?Illumes her yet,?The lovely smile?That grows so faint and wan,?Her people shouting in her dying ear,?Are not two daws worth two of any swan!
Ye outlaw'd Best, who yet are bright?With the sunken light,?Whose common style?Is Virtue at her gracious ease,?The flower of olden sanctities,?Ye haply trust, by love's benignant guile,?To lure the dark and selfish brood?To their own hated good;?Ye haply dream?Your lives shall still their charmful sway sustain,?Unstifled by the fever'd steam?That rises from the plain.?Know, 'twas the force of function high,?In corporate exercise, and public awe?Of Nature's, Heaven's, and England's Law?That Best, though mix'd with Bad, should reign,?Which kept you in your sky!?But, when the sordid Trader caught?The loose-held sceptre from your hands distraught,?And soon, to the Mechanic vain,?Sold the proud toy for nought,?Your charm was broke, your task was sped,?Your beauty, with your honour, dead,?And though you still are dreaming sweet?Of being even now not less?Than Gods and Goddesses, ye shall not long so cheat?Your hearts of their due heaviness.?Go, get you for your evil watching shriven!?Leave to your lawful Master's itching hands?Your unking'd lands,?But keep, at least, the dignity?Of deigning not, for his smooth use, to be,?Voteless, the voted delegates?Of his strange interests, loves and hates.?In sackcloth, or in private strife?With private ill, ye may please Heaven,?And soothe the coming pangs of sinking life;?And prayer perchance may win?A term to God's indignant mood?And the orgies of the multitude,?Which now begin;?But do not hope to wave the silken rag?Of your unsanction'd flag,?And so to guide?The great ship, helmless on the swelling tide?Of that presumptuous Sea,?Unlit by sun or moon, yet inly bright?With lights innumerable that give no light,?Flames of corrupted will and scorn of right,?Rejoicing to be free.
And, now, because the dark comes on apace?When none can work for fear,?And Liberty in every Land lies slain,?And the two Tyrannies unchallenged reign,?And heavy prophecies, suspended long?At supplication of the righteous few,?And so discredited, to fulfilment throng,?Restrain'd no more by faithful prayer or tear,?And the dread baptism of blood seems near?That brings to the humbled Earth the Time of Grace,?Breathless be song,?And let Christ's own look through?The darkness, suddenly increased,?To the gray secret lingering in the East.
XIV. 'IF I WERE DEAD.'
'If I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!'?The dear lips quiver'd as they spake,?And the tears brake?From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled.?Poor Child, poor Child!?I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song.?It is not true that Love will do no wrong.?Poor Child!?And did you think, when you so cried and smiled,?How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake,?And of those words your full avengers make??Poor Child, poor Child!?And now, unless it be?That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee,?O God, have Thou no mercy upon me!?Poor Child!
XV. PEACE.
O England, how hast thou forgot,?In dullard care for undisturb'd increase?Of gold, which profits not,?The gain which once thou knew'st was for thy peace!?Honour is peace, the peace which does accord?Alone with God's glad word:?'My peace I send you, and I send a sword.'?O England, how hast thou forgot,?How fear'st the things which make for joy, not fear,?Confronted near.?Hard days? 'Tis what the pamper'd seek to buy?With their most willing gold in weary lands.?Loss and pain risk'd? What sport but understands?These for incitements! Suddenly to die,?With conscience a blurr'd scroll??The sunshine dreaming upon Salmon's height?Is not so sweet and white?As the most heretofore sin-spotted soul?That darts to its delight?Straight from the absolution of a faithful fight.?Myriads of homes unloosen'd of home's bond,?And fill'd with helpless babes and harmless women fond??Let those whose pleasant chance?Took them, like me, among the German towns,?After the war that pluck'd the fangs from France,?With me pronounce?Whether the frequent black, which then array'd?Child, wife, and maid,?Did most to magnify the sombreness of grief,?Or add the beauty of a staid relief?And freshening foil?To cheerful-hearted Honour's