The Unknown Eros | Page 6

delusive
likeness doubly drawn,
And Nature's long suspended breath of flame

Persuading soft, and whispering Duty's name,
Awhile to smile and
speak
With this thy Sister sweet, and therefore mine;
Thy Sister
sweet,
Who bade the wheels to stir
Of sensitive delight in the poor
brain,
Dead of devotion and tired memory,
So that I lived again,

And, strange to aver,
With no 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