Poems
Still was the human form divine;
Weeping, in weak and mortal clay,
O Jesus! still the form was thine!
And thine the human face; and thine
The human hands, and feet, and breath
Entering through the gates of birth,
And passing through the gates of death.
And O thou Lamb of God! whom I
Slew in my dark self-righteous pride,
Art thou returned to Albion’s land?
And is Jerusalem thy Bride?
Come to my arms, and never more
Depart, but dwell for ever here;
Create my spirit to thy Love,
Subdue my spectre to thy fear.
Spectre of Albion! warlike fiend!
In clouds of blood and ruin rolled,
I here reclaim thee as my own,
My selfhood; Satan armed in gold.
Is this thy soft family love?
Thy cruel patriarchal pride?
Planting thy family alone,
Destroying all the world beside?
A man’s worst enemies are those
Of his own house and family:
And he who makes his law a curse,
By his own law shall surely die.
In my exchanges every land
Shall walk; and mine in every land,
Mutual, shall build Jerusalem,
Both heart in heart and hand in hand.
TO THE DEISTS
I saw a monk of Charlemagne
Arise before my sight:
I talked with the grey monk as he stood
In the beams of infernal light.
Gibbon arose with a lash of steel,
And Voltaire with a racking wheel;
The Schools, in clouds of learning rolled,
Arose with War in iron and gold.
“Thou lazy monk”, they sound afar,
“In vain condemning glorious war;
And in your cell you shall ever dwell.
Rise, War, and bind him in his cell.”
The blood ran red from the Grey Monk’s side,
His hands and feet were wounded wide;
His body bent, his arms and knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees.
When Satan first the black bow bent,
And moral law from the Gospel rent,
He forged the law into a sword,
And spilled the blood of mercy’s Lord.
Titus, Constantine, Charlemagne,
O Voltaire, Rousseau, Gibbon; vain
Your Grecian mocks and Roman sword
Against the image of his Lord.
For a tear is an intellectual thing,
And a sigh is the sword of an angel king,
And the bitter groan of a martyr’s woe
Is an arrow from the Almighty’s bow.
Tiriel
And aged Tiriel stood before the gates of his beautiful palace,
With Myratana, once the Queen of all the western plains;
But now his eyes were darkened, and his wife fading in death.
They stood before their once delightful palace; and thus the voice
Of aged Tiriel arose, that his sons might hear in their gates.
“Accursed race of Tiriel! behold your father;
Come forth and look on her that bore you. Come, you accursed sons.
In my weak arms I here have borne your dying mother;
Come forth, sons of the curse, come forth! see the death of Myratana.”
His sons ran from their gates, and saw their aged parents stand;
And thus the eldest son of Tiriel raised his mighty voice:—
“Old man! unworthy to be called the father of Tiriel’s race!
For every one of those thy wrinkles, each of those grey hairs,
Are cruel as death, and as obdurate as the devouring pit!
Why should thy sons care for thy curses, thou accursed man?
Were we not slaves till we rebelled? Who cares for Tiriel’s curse?
His blessing was a cruel curse; his curse may be a blessing.”
He ceased. The aged man raised up his right hand to the heavens;
His left supported Myratana, shrinking in pangs of death.
The orbs of his large eyes he opened, and thus his voice went forth:—
“Serpents, not sons, wreathing around the bones of Tiriel!
Ye worms of death, feasting upon your aged parent’s flesh,
Listen, and hear your mother’s groans. No more accursed sons
She bears; she groans not at the birth of Heuxos or Yuva.
These are the groans of death, ye serpents! these are the groans of
death!
Nourished with milk, ye serpents, nourished with mother’s tears and
cares!
Look at my eyes, blind as the orbless skull among the stones;
Look at my bald head. Hark, listen, ye serpents, listen!...
What, Myratana! What, my wife! O soul! O spirit! O fire!
What, Myratana, art thou dead? Look here, ye serpents, look!
The serpents sprung from her own bowels have drained her dry as this.
Curse on your ruthless heads, for I will bury her even here!”
So saying, he began to dig a grave with his aged hands:
But Heuxos called a son of Zazel to dig their mother a grave.
“Old cruelty, desist, and let us dig a grave for thee.
Thou hast refused our charity, thou hast refused our food,
Thou hast refused our clothes, our beds, our houses for thy dwelling,
Choosing to wander like a son of Zazel in the rocks.
Why dost thou curse? Is not the curse now come upon thine head?
Was it not thou enslaved the sons of Zazel? and they have cursed,
And now thou feel’st it! Dig a grave, and let us bury our mother.”
“There, take the body, cursed sons! and may the heavens rain wrath,
As thick as northern fogs, around your gates, to choke you up!
That you may lie as now your mother lies—like dogs, cast out;
The stink of your dead carcases annoying man and beast,
Till your white bones are bleached with age for a memorial.
No! your remembrance shall perish; for, when your carcases
Lie stinking on the earth, the buriers shall arise from the East,
And not a bone of all the sons of Tiriel remain.
Bury your mother, but you cannot bury the curse of Tiriel.”
He ceased, and darkling o’er the mountains sought his pathless way.
He wandered day and night. To him both day and night were dark:
The sun he felt, but the bright moon was now a useless globe.
O’er mountains and through vales of woe the blind and aged man
Wandered, till he that leadeth all led him to the vales of Har.
And Har and Heva, like two children, sat beneath the oak.
Mnetha, now aged, waited on them, and brought them food and clothing.
But they were as the shadow of Har, and as the years forgotten;
Playing with flowers and running after birds they spent the day,
And in the night like infants slept, delighted with infant dreams.
Soon as the blind wanderer entered the pleasant gardens of Har,
They ran weeping, like frighted infants, for refuge in Mnetha’s arms.
The blind man felt his way, and cried: “Peace to these open doors!
Let no one fear, for poor blind Tiriel hurts none but himself.
Tell me, O friends, where am I now, and in what pleasant place?”
“This is the valley of Har,” said Mnetha, “and this the tent of Har.
Who art thou, poor blind man, that takest the name of Tiriel on thee?
Tiriel is King of all the West. Who art thou? I am Mnetha;
And this is Har and Heva, trembling like infants by my side.”
“I know Tiriel is King of the West, and there he lives in joy.
No matter who I am, O Mnetha! If thou hast any food,
Give it me, for I cannot stay,—my journey is far from hence.”
Then Har said: “O my mother Mnetha, venture not so near him,
For he is the king of rotten wood, and of the bones of death;
He wanders without eyes, and passes through thick walls and doors.
Thou shalt not smite my mother Mnetha, O thou eyeless man.”
“A wanderer, I beg for food. You see I cannot weep.
I cast away my staff, the kind companion of my travel,
And I kneel down that you may see I am a harmless man.”
He kneeled down. And Mnetha said: “Come, Har and Heva, rise:
He is an innocent old man, and hungry with his travel.”
Then Har arose, and laid his hand upon old Tiriel’s head.
“God bless thy poor bald pate, God bless thy hollow winking eyes,
God bless thy shrivelled beard, God bless thy many-wrinkled forehead!
Thou hast no teeth, old man! and thus I kiss thy sleek bald head.
Heva, come kiss his bald head, for he will not hurt us, Heva.”
Then Heva came, and took old Tiriel in her mother’s arms.
“Bless thy poor eyes, old man, and bless the old father of Tiriel!
Thou art my Tiriel’s old father; I know thee through thy wrinkles,
Because thou smellest like the fig-tree, thou smellest like ripe figs.
How didst thou lose thy eyes, old Tiriel? Bless thy wrinkled face!”
Mnetha said: “Come in, aged wanderer; tell us of thy name.
Why shouldst thou conceal thyself from those of thine own flesh?”
“I am not of this region,” said Tiriel dissemblingly.
“I am an aged wanderer, once father of a race
Far in the North; but they were wicked, and were all destroyed,
And I their father sent an outcast. I have told you all:
Ask me no more, I pray, for grief hath sealed my precious sight.”
“O Lord!” said Mnetha, “how I tremble! Are there then more people,
More human creatures on this earth, beside the sons of Har?”
“No more,” said Tiriel, “but I, remain on all this globe;
And I remain an outcast. Hast thou anything to drink?”
Then Mnetha gave him milk and fruits, and they sat down together.
They sat and ate, and Har and Heva smiled on Tiriel.
“Thou art a very old old man, but I am older than thou.
How came thine hair to leave thy forehead, how came thy face so brown?
My hair is very long, my beard doth cover all my breast.
God bless thy piteous face! To count the wrinkles in thy face
Would puzzle Mnetha. Bless thy face, for thou art Tiriel!”
“Tiriel I never saw but once. I sat with him and ate;
He was as cheerful as a prince, and gave me entertainment.
But long I stayed not at his palace, for I am forced to wander.”
“What! wilt thou leave us too?” said Heva. “Thou shalt not leave us too,
For we have many sports to show thee, and many songs to sing;
And after dinner we will walk into the cage of Har,
And thou shalt help us to catch birds, and gather them ripe cherries;
Then let thy name be Tiriel, and never leave us more.”
“If thou dost go,” said Har, “I wish thine eyes may see thy folly.
My sons have left me.—Did thine leave thee? O, ’twas very cruel!”
“No, venerable man,” said Tiriel, “ask me not such things,
For thou dost make my heart to bleed. My sons were not like thine,
But worse. O, never ask me more, or I must flee away.”
“Thou shalt not go,” said Heva, “till thou hast seen our singing-birds,
And heard Har sing in the great cage, and slept upon our fleeces.
“Go not, for thou art so like Tiriel that I love thine head,
Though it is wrinkled like the earth parched with the summer heat.”
Then Tiriel rose up from the seat, and said: “God bless these tents!
My journey is o’er rocks and mountains, not in pleasant vales;
I must not sleep nor rest, because of madness and dismay.”
And Mnetha said: “Thou must not go to wander dark alone,
But dwell with us, and let us be to thee instead of eyes,
And I will bring thee food, old man, till death shall call thee hence.”
Then Tiriel frowned, and answered: “Did I not command you saying,
Madness and deep dismay possess the heart of the blind man,
The wanderer who seeks the woods, leaning upon his staff?”
Then Mnetha, trembling at his frowns, led him to the tent-door,
And gave to him his staff, and blessed him. He went on his way.