Poems & Ballads Volume I Part 18

For the breaking of gold in their hair they halt as a man made lame: They are utterly naked and bare; their mouths are bitter with shame.

Wilt thou judge thy people now, O king that wast found most wise?

Wilt thou lie any more, O thou whose mouth is emptied of lies?

Shall G.o.d make a pact with thee, till his hook be found in thy sides?

Wilt thou put back the time of the sea, or the place of the season of tides?

Set a word in thy lips, to stand before G.o.d with a word in thy mouth: That "the rain shall return in the land, and the tender dew after drouth."

But the arm of the elders is broken, their strength is unbound and undone: They wait for a sign of a token; they cry, and there cometh none.

Their moan is in every place, the cry of them filleth the land: There is shame in the sight of their face, there is fear in the thews of their hand.

They are girdled about the reins with a curse for the girdle thereon: For the noise of the rending of chains the face of their colour is gone.

For the sound of the shouting of men they are grievously stricken at heart: They are smitten asunder with pain, their bones are smitten apart.

There is none of them all that is whole; their lips gape open for breath; They are clothed with sickness of soul, and the shape of the shadow of death.

The wind is thwart in their feet; it is full of the shouting of mirth; As one shaketh the sides of a sheet, so it shaketh the ends of the earth.

The sword, the sword is made keen; the iron has opened its mouth; The corn is red that was green; it is bound for the sheaves of the south.

The sound of a word was shed, the sound of the wind as a breath, In the ears of the souls that were dead, in the dust of the deepness of death;

Where the face of the moon is taken, the ways of the stars undone, The light of the whole sky shaken, the light of the face of the sun:

Where the waters are emptied and broken, the waves of the waters are stayed; Where G.o.d has bound for a token the darkness that maketh afraid;

Where the sword was covered and hidden, and dust had grown in its side, A word came forth which was bidden, the crying of one that cried:

The sides of the two-edged sword shall be bare, and its mouth shall be red, For the breath of the face of the Lord that is felt in the bones of the dead.

TO VICTOR HUGO

In the fair days when G.o.d By man as G.o.dlike trod, And each alike was Greek, alike was free, G.o.d's lightning spared, they said, Alone the happier head Whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for thee, To whom the high G.o.ds gave of right Their thunders and their laurels and their light.

Sunbeams and bays before Our master's servants wore, For these Apollo left in all men's lands; But far from these ere now And watched with jealous brow Lay the blind lightnings shut between G.o.d's hands, And only loosed on slaves and kings The terror of the tempest of their wings.

Born in those younger years That shone with storms of spears And shook in the wind blown from a dead world's pyre, When by her back-blown hair Napoleon caught the fair And fierce Republic with her feet of fire, And stayed with iron words and hands Her flight, and freedom in a thousand lands:

Thou sawest the tides of things Close over heads of kings, And thine hand felt the thunder, and to thee Laurels and lightnings were As sunbeams and soft air Mixed each in other, or as mist with sea Mixed, or as memory with desire, Or the lute's pulses with the louder lyre.

For thee man's spirit stood Disrobed of flesh and blood, And bare the heart of the most secret hours; And to thine hand more tame Than birds in winter came High hopes and unknown flying forms of powers, And from thy table fed, and sang Till with the tune men's ears took fire and rang.

Even all men's eyes and ears With fiery sound and tears Waxed hot, and cheeks caught flame and eyelid light, At those high songs of thine That stung the sense like wine, Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night, Or wailed as in some flooded cave Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave.

But we, our master, we Whose hearts, uplift to thee, Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song, We ask not nor await From the clenched hands of fate, As thou, remission of the world's old wrong; Respite we ask not, nor release; Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace.

Though thy most fiery hope Storm heaven, to set wide ope The all-sought-for gate whence G.o.d or Chance debars All feet of men, all eyes-- The old night resumes her skies, Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars, Where nought save these is sure in sight; And, paven with death, our days are roofed with night.

One thing we can; to be Awhile, as men may, free; But not by hope or pleasure the most stern G.o.ddess, most awful-eyed, Sits, but on either side Sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn, Sad faith that cannot hope or fear, And memory grey with many a flowerless year.

Not that in stranger's wise I lift not loving eyes To the fair foster-mother France, that gave Beyond the pale fleet foam Help to my sires and home, Whose great sweet breast could shelter those and save Whom from her nursing b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hands Their land cast forth of old on gentler lands.

Not without thoughts that ache For theirs and for thy sake, I, born of exiles, hail thy banished head; I whose young song took flight Toward the great heat and light On me a child from thy far splendour shed, From thine high place of soul and song, Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong.

Ah, not with lessening love For memories born hereof, I look to that sweet mother-land, and see The old fields and fair full streams, And skies, but fled like dreams The feet of freedom and the thought of thee; And all between the skies and graves The mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves.

She, killed with noisome air, Even she! and still so fair, Who said "Let there be freedom," and there was Freedom; and as a lance The fiery eyes of France Touched the world's sleep and as a sleep made pa.s.s Forth of men's heavier ears and eyes Smitten with fire and thunder from new skies.

Are they men's friends indeed Who watch them weep and bleed?

Because thou hast loved us, shall the G.o.ds love thee?

Thou, first of men and friend, Seest thou, even thou, the end?

Thou knowest what hath been, knowest thou what shall be?

Evils may pa.s.s and hopes endure; But fate is dim, and all the G.o.ds obscure.

O nursed in airs apart, O poet highest of heart, Hast thou seen time, who hast seen so many things?

Are not the years more wise, More sad than keenest eyes, The years with soundless feet and sounding wings?

Pa.s.sing we hear them not, but past The clamour of them thrills us, and their blast.

Thou art chief of us, and lord; Thy song is as a sword Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers; Thou art lord and king; but we Lift younger eyes, and see Less of high hope, less light on wandering hours; Hours that have borne men down so long, Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong.

But thine imperial soul, As years and ruins roll To the same end, and all things and all dreams With the same wreck and roar Drift on the dim same sh.o.r.e, Still in the bitter foam and brackish streams Tracks the fresh water-spring to be And sudden sweeter fountains in the sea.

As once the high G.o.d bound With many a rivet round Man's saviour, and with iron nailed him through, At the wild end of things, Where even his own bird's wings Flagged, whence the sea shone like a drop of dew, From Caucasus beheld below Past fathoms of unfathomable snow;

So the strong G.o.d, the chance Central of circ.u.mstance, Still shows him exile who will not be slave; All thy great fame and thee Girt by the dim strait sea With mult.i.tudinous walls of wandering wave; Shows us our greatest from his throne Fate-stricken, and rejected of his own.

Yea, he is strong, thou say'st, A mystery many-faced, The wild beasts know him and the wild birds flee; The blind night sees him, death Shrinks beaten at his breath, And his right hand is heavy on the sea: We know he hath made us, and is king; We know not if he care for anything.

Thus much, no more, we know; He bade what is be so, Bade light be and bade night be, one by one; Bade hope and fear, bade ill And good redeem and kill, Till all men be aweary of the sun And his world burn in its own flame And bear no witness longer of his name.

Yet though all this be thus, Be those men praised of us Who have loved and wrought and sorrowed and not sinned For fame or fear or gold, Nor waxed for winter cold, Nor changed for changes of the worldly wind; Praised above men of men be these, Till this one world and work we know shall cease.

Yea, one thing more than this, We know that one thing is, The splendour of a spirit without blame, That not the labouring years Blind-born, nor any fears, Nor men nor any G.o.ds can tire or tame; But purer power with fiery breath Fills, and exalts above the gulfs of death.

Praised above men be thou, Whose laurel-laden brow, Made for the morning, droops not in the night; Praised and beloved, that none Of all thy great things done Flies higher than thy most equal spirit's flight; Praised, that nor doubt nor hope could bend Earth's loftiest head, found upright to the end.

BEFORE DAWN