Selected Poems of Francis Thompson Part 9

On Ararat there grew a vine, When Asia from her bathing rose; Our first sailor made a twine Thereof for his prefiguring brows.

Canst divine Where, upon our dusty earth, of that vine a cl.u.s.ter grows?

On Golgotha there grew a thorn Round the long-prefigured Brows.

Mourn, O mourn!

For the vine have we the spine? Is this all the Heaven allows?

On Calvary was shook a spear; Press the point into thy heart-- Joy and fear!

All the spines upon the thorn into curling tendrils start.

O dismay!

I, a wingless mortal, sporting With the tresses of the sun?

I, that dare my hand to lay On the thunder in its snorting?

Ere begun, Falls my singed song down the sky, even the old Icarian way.

From the fall precipitant These dim s.n.a.t.c.hes of her chant[B]

Only have remained mine;-- That from spear and thorn alone May be grown For the front of saint or singer any divinizing twine.

Her song said that no springing Paradise but evermore Hangeth on a singing That has chords of weeping, And that sings the after-sleeping To souls which wake too sore.

"But woe the singer, woe!" she said; "beyond the dead his singing-lore, All its art of sweet and sore, He learns, in Elenore!"

Where is the land of Luthany, Where is the tract of Elenore?

I am bound therefor.

"Pierce thy heart to find the key; With thee take Only what none else would keep; Learn to dream when thou dost wake, Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.

Learn to water joy with tears, Learn from fears to vanquish fears; To hope, for thou dar'st not despair, Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve; Plough thou the rock until it bear; Know, for thou else couldst not believe; Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive; Die, for none other way canst live.

When earth and heaven lay down their veil, And that apocalypse turns thee pale; When thy seeing blindeth thee To what thy fellow-mortals see; When their sight to thee is sightless; Their living, death; their light, most lightless; Search no more-- Pa.s.s the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."

Where is the land of Luthany, And where the region Elenore?

I do faint therefor.

"When, to the new eyes of thee, All things, by immortal power, Near or far, Hiddenly To each other linked are, That thou canst not stir a flower Without troubling of a star; When thy song is s.h.i.+eld and mirror To the fair snake-curled Pain, Where thou dar'st affront her terror That on her thou may'st attain Persean conquest;--seek no more, O seek no more!

Pa.s.s the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."

So sang she, so wept she, Through a dream-night's day; And with her magic singing kept she-- Mystical in music-- That garden of enchanting In visionary May; Swayless for my spirit's haunting, Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mortal mornings grey.

[B] The chant of the Mistress of Vision, whom, in her secret garden, the Poet has earlier described.

THE AFTER WOMAN

Daughter of the ancient Eve We know the gifts ye gave--and give.

Who knows the gifts which _you_ shall give, Daughter of the newer Eve?

You, if my soul be augur, you Shall--O what shall you not, Sweet, do?

The celestial traitress play, And all mankind to bliss betray; With sacrosanct cajoleries And starry treachery of your eyes, Tempt us back to Paradise!

Make heavenly trespa.s.s;--ay, press in Where faint the fledge-foot seraphin, Blest fool! Be ensign of our wars, And shame us all to warriors!

Unbanner your bright locks,--advance, Girl, their gilded puissance, I' the mystic vaward, and draw on After the lovely gonfalon Us to out-folly the excess Of your sweet foolhardiness; To adventure like intense a.s.sault against Omnipotence!

Give me song, as She is, new, Earth should turn in time thereto!

New, and new, and thrice so new, All old sweets, New Sweet, meant you!

Fair, I had a dream of thee, When my young heart beat prophecy, And in apparition elate Thy little b.r.e.a.s.t.s knew waxed great, Sister of the Canticle, And thee for G.o.d grown marriageable.

How my desire desired your day, That, wheeled in rumour on its way, Shook me thus with presentience! Then Eden's lopped tree shall shoot again: For who Christ's eyes shall miss, with those Eyes for evident nuncios?

Or who be tardy to His call In your accents augural?

Who shall not feel the Heavens hid Impend, at tremble of your lid, And divine advent s.h.i.+ne avowed Under that dim and lucid cloud; Yea, 'fore the silver apocalypse Fail, at the unsealing of your lips?

When to love _you_ is (O Christ's spouse!) To love the beauty of His house.

Then come the Isaian days; the old Shall dream; and our young men behold Vision--yea, the vision of Thabor-mount, Which none to other shall recount, Because in all men's hearts shall be The seeing and the prophecy.

For ended is the Mystery Play, When Christ is life, and you the way; When Egypt's spoils are Israel's right, And Day fulfils the married arms of Night.

But here my lips are still.

Until You and the hour shall be revealed, This song is sung and sung not, and its words are sealed.

LINES

To W.M.

O tree of many branches! One thou hast Thou barest not, but grafted'st on thee. Now, Should all men's thunders break on thee, and leave Thee reft of bough and blossom, that one branch Shall cling to thee, my Father, Brother, Friend, Shall cling to thee, until the end of end!

THE WAY OF A MAID

The lover, whose soul shaken is In some dec.u.man billow of bliss, Who feels his gradual-wading feet Sink in some sudden hollow of sweet, And 'mid love's used converse comes Sharp on a mood which all joy sums-- An instant fine compendium of The liberal-leaved writ of love-- His abashed pulses beating thick At the exigent joy and quick, Is dumbed, by aiming utterance great Up to the miracle of his fate.

The wise girl, such Icarian fall Saved by her confidence that she's small,-- As what no kindred word will fit Is uttered best by opposite, Love in the tongue of hate exprest, And deepest anguish in a jest,-- Feeling the infinite must be Best said by triviality, Speaks, where expression bates its wings, Just happy, alien, little things; What of all words is in excess Implies in a sweet nothingness, With dailiest babble shows her sense That full speech were full impotence; And, while she feels the heavens lie bare,-- She only talks about her hair.

ODE TO THE SETTING SUN

PRELUDE

The wailful sweetness of the violin Floats down the hushed waters of the wind; The heart-strings of the throbbing harp begin To long in aching music. Spirit-pined,

In wafts that poignant sweetness drifts, until The wounded soul ooze sadness. The red sun, A bubble of fire, drops slowly toward the hill, While one bird prattles that the day is done.

O setting Sun, that as in reverent days Sinkest in music to thy smoothed sleep, Discrowned of homage, though yet crowned with rays, Hymned not at harvest more, though reapers reap:

For thee this music wakes not. O deceived, If thou hear in these thoughtless harmonies A pious phantom of adorings reaved, And echo of fair ancient flatteries!

Yet, in this field where the Cross planted reigns, I know not what strange pa.s.sion bows my head To thee, whose great command upon my veins Proves thee a G.o.d for me not dead, not dead!

For wors.h.i.+p it is too incredulous, For doubt--oh, too believing-pa.s.sionate!

What wild divinity makes my heart thus A fount of most baptismal tears?--Thy straight

Long beam lies steady on the Cross. Ah me!

What secret would thy radiant finger show?

Of thy bright masters.h.i.+p is this the key?

Is _this_ thy secret, then? And is it woe?