Eidolon, or The Course of a Soul Part 1

Eidolon.

by Walter R. Ca.s.sels.

INTRODUCTION TO EIDOLON.

Hazlitt says, one cannot "make an allegory go on all fours," it must to a certain degree be obscure and shadowy, like the images which the traveller in the desert sees mirrored on the heavens, wherein he can trace but a dreamy resemblance to the reality beneath. It therefore seems to me advisable to give a solution of the "Eidolon," the symbol, which follows, that the purpose of the poem may at once be evident.

In "Eidolon" I have attempted to symbol the course of a Poet's mind from a state wherein thought is disordered, barren and uncultivated, to that which is ordered and swayed by the true Spirit of Poetry, and holds its perfect creed.

I have therefore laid the scene on a desert island, whence, as from the isolation of his own mind, he reflects upon the concerns of life.

At first he is a poet only by birthright '_Poeta nascitur_.' He has the poet's inherent love for the Beautiful, his keen susceptibility of all that is lovely in outward nature, but these are only the blossoms which have fallen upon him from the Tree of Life, the fruit is yet untasted. He has looked at the evil of the world alone, and seeing how much "the time is out of joint" has become misanthropic, and turns his back alike on the evil and the good.

Then comes Night, the stillness of the soul, with starlight breaking through the gloom. He gazes on other worlds, and pictures there the perfection he sighs for, but cannot find in this. Thus by the conception of a higher and n.o.bler existence acquiring some impetus towards its realization.

We then find him lying in the suns.h.i.+ne with the beauties of Nature around him, whose silent teaching works upon him till the true SPIRIT OF POETRY speaks _within his soul_, and combats the misanthropy and weakness of the sensuous MAN, showing him that Action is the end of Life, not mere indulgence in abstract and visionary rhapsodies.

In the next scene he makes further advances, for the spirit of Poetry shows him that the beauty for which he has sought amongst the stars of heaven lies really at his feet; that Earth, too, is a star capable of equal brightness with those on which he gazes. He is thus brought from the Ideal to the Real.

The fifth scene emblems the influence of Love on the soul. It is the nurse of Poetry, and Sorrow is the pang which stimulates the divine germ into active vitality. Had he been entirely happy, and the course of his love run smooth, he would have been content to enjoy life in ease and idleness.

Next we find him looking broadly on life, on its utmost ills as well as its beauties, but not with the eye of the misanthrope, but of the Physician who searches out disease that he may find the remedy, and though the soul still sighs for the serenity and placid delight of the ideal life, the world of Thought, the glorious principle of Poetry prevails, and he sacrifices self-ease, feeling that he has a n.o.bler mission than to dream through life, and that here he must labour ere he can earn the right to rest.

Thus in the last scene the SPIRIT and the MAN have become one--he is _truly_ a Poet. His prayer maintains the direct and divine inspiration of the Poet-Priest.

The action in short is the conflict of two principles within the breast, the False and the True, ending in the extinction of error and the triumph of truth.

EIDOLON, OR THE COURSE OF A SOUL.

SCENE. _A desert Island. The sea-sh.o.r.e._

MAN.

How lonely were I in this solitude, This atom of creation which yon wave, White with the fury of a thousand years, Might gulf into oblivion, if the soul Knew circ.u.mscription. Far as eye can reach Around me lies a wild and watery waste, With every billow sentinel to keep Its prisoner fetter'd to his ocean cell-- What were it but a plunge--an instant strife-- Then liberty s.n.a.t.c.h'd from the clutch of Death The Tyrant, who with mystic terror grinds Men into slaves--But he who thinks _is_ free, And fineless as the unresting winds of heaven, Now rus.h.i.+ng with wild joy around the belt Of whirling Saturn, then away through s.p.a.ce Till he and all his radiant brotherhood Dwindle to fire-flies round the brow of Night.

Thought is the great creator under G.o.d, Begotten of his breathing, that can raise Shapes from the dust and give them Beauty's soul; And though my empire be a continent, Squared down from leagues to inches, what of that?

The mind contains a world within its frame Which Fancy peoples o'er with radiant forms, Replete with life and spirit excellence.

O! there is glory in the thought that now I stand absolved from all the chilling forms And falsities of life, that like frail reeds Pierce the blind palms of those that lean on them, And from the springs of my own being draw All strength, and hope, and joyance, all that makes Lone meditations sweet, and schools the heart For prophecy. In the o'erpeopled world We seem like babes that cannot walk alone, But fasten on the skirts of other men, Their creeds, conclusions, and vain phantasies, Too languid, or too weak to poize ourselves; But here the crutch is shattered at a blow, Dependence made a thing for winds to blast, And paraphrase in bitter mockery.

From this retreat, as from a cloister calm, I dream upon the busy haunts of men As things that touch me not. An empire riven, A monarchy o'erthrown, here seem to me Importless as a foam-bell's death. The world And all its revolutions are now less Within my chronicles, than is the ken Of a star's...o...b..t on the fines of s.p.a.ce; But like a mariner saved from the wreck On this calm spot I stand, unscathed, secure From the rough throbbings of the sea of strife, And woe, and clamour, wherewith this world's life Ebbs and declines unto the printless sh.o.r.e Of death. O! blessed change, if there were one To love me in this solitude, and make Life beautiful. My soul is wearied out With earth's fierce warfare, and its selfish ease; The slights and coldness of the hollow crowds That are its arbiters; the changeful face, The upstart arrogance of base-born fools, Who crown them with their golden dross, and deem _That_ the all-potent badge of sovereignty.

O thou, my heart! hast thou not framed for life A golden palace in all solitude, Whither the strains of quiet melodies Float on the breath of memory, like songs From the dim bosom of the evening woods, Peopling its chambers with sweet poesy?

Hast thou not called the suns.h.i.+ne from the morn To circle thee with a pure spirit life, And with the softness of its tender arms Clasp thee in the embrace of heav'nly love?

Hast thou not heard the music of the stars, In the calm stillness of the summer night, And read their jewell'd pages o'er and o'er, Like the bright inspirations of a bard, Till glowing strophes rung within thy soul Of glad Orion and clear Pleiades?

Hast thou not seen the silv'ry moons.h.i.+ne thrill Upon the dusky mantle of the night, Like radiant glances through a maiden's veil, Till shaken thence they fell in a pure shower O'er flood and field and bosky wilderness, Wreathing earth with the glory of a saint?

O! thus to dwell far from the stir of life, Far from its pleasures and its miseries, Far from the panting cry of man's desire, That waileth upward in hoa.r.s.e discontent, And here to list but to that liquid voice That riseth in the spirit, and whose flow Is like a rivulet from Paradise-- To hear the wanderings of divine thought Within the soul, like the low ebb and flow Of waters in the blue-deep ocean caves, Forming itself a speech and melody Sweeter than words unto the aching sense-- To stand alone with Nature where man's step Hath never bowed a gra.s.s-blade 'neath its weight, Nor hath the sound of his rude utterance Broken the pauses of the wild-bird's song; And thus in its unpeopled solitude To be the spirit of this universe, Centering thought and reason in one frame, And in the majesty of quenchless soul, Rising unto the stature of a man, _That_ is to make life glorious and great, Dissolving matter in the spiritual, As the green pine dissolveth into flame; Not on the breath of popular applause That is the spectre of all nothingness; Not on the fawning of a servile crew, Who kiss the hem of fortune's purple robe, And lick the dust before prosperity, Waiting the cogging of the downward scale, To turn from slaves to bravos in the dark; Not on the favours of the politic, Who in the smile of honour, Persian-like, Pamper the pampered from their banquet halls, But to his starving cry, when fortune frowns, Mutter their falsehoods through the bolted gate; But in the brightness of the inner soul, The placitude of peace and holy thought, The joyous lightness of the spirit's wings, Sweeping with equal strokes the azure sky Of Present, Past, and wide Futurity; In the high tidemarks on the sands of life, Where thought hath swept her purifying wave, Bearing the treasures of the unsearched deep To swell the riches of humanity.

_That_ is a happiness apart from man To aid, to sympathise with, or destroy; In its calm solitude alike secure From the broad adulation of the weak, And the strained condescension of the great, Both insults to the mighty soul within, That is not prized but for its golden shrine.

Here there is that which makes the spirit free And n.o.ble in the measure of its strength, Untrammelled by conventionalities That make the very light of heaven take worth According to the cas.e.m.e.nt it s.h.i.+nes through.

O solitude! thy blessed power hath swept All earthly pa.s.sions from my soul like weeds That choke the issues of eternal love.

What now to me are hatred and revenge?

Thoughts that if fleeting through the mind would fall Like unknown birds upon a foreign sh.o.r.e, Strange, wonderful; where no false hearts are nigh To poison life with variance and strife.

O holy Nature! thou art only love And peace and universal unity, From thy sweet bosom springeth up no seed Of bitterness and sorrow, that like thorns Cling to the vesture of mortality, Piercing the spirit through with cruel woe.

With thee my soul could dwell for evermore, Expanding all good feelings day by day, Till, at the last, like roses in full bloom The blossoms fall from pure maturity.

Pride! Here no scale of inches is set up For man to strain his littleness against, But o'er me hangs the majesty of heaven, Bright with the glory of the noontide sun; Beneath, the Earth, that whispers "Thou art dust, "Gat like a child forth from my fertile womb, "And bone of my bone, thus, flesh of my fles.h.!.+"

Thou glorious firmament that like G.o.d's love Enfoldest all creation utterly, Making the pathway of the wheeling spheres A splendour, and a triumph, and a joy, That on the brightness of thine azure breast Settest the constellated stars like gems, To flash the glory of thy loveliness Through all the fulness of unmeasured s.p.a.ce.

Can madness in its raving cast a thought To soar unto thy blessed perfectness, Nor stand subdued with reverence and awe In contemplation of the Infinite?

O Earth! thou Mother and true Monitress!

Can thy frail children close their ears for aye 'Gainst the deep-hearted warnings of thy voice?

In the wild whirl of life the tones may die Amid the clangour of contending foes, But here, as in the stillness of the night, Thy solemn teaching falleth on the soul To the vibration of the low heart-beat.

Then what is there to charm me back to life?

To wrestle with the guilty and the vain, And lose ident.i.ty amid the crowd Who struggle onward after base desire.

This quiet scene doth teach me how to weigh Your pleasures and your vanities aright; To hold as dross the honour that is flung Around man like a winter covering, Which the same hand can pluck away again, And leave the outcast s.h.i.+vering in the blast.

There is no honour saving that within, Which none, nor man, nor Death itself can s.n.a.t.c.h, But which falls from the spirit in its flight Like a prophetic mantle upon Time.

Pleasure! O World! in thine insanity Thou sinkest Soul into a poor buffoon, Garbed in tinsel and false ornament To play its antics on the stage of life, A thing for fools to laugh at in their mirth.

Thou sat'st thy l.u.s.t upon the sapless husks That strew the highways of this pilgrimage, Closing thine eyes unto their emptiness, And out of folly turning sour to sweet.

Hast thou the joy that nature's converse sheds Thro' all the pulses of the quiet soul?

The gentle calm that like a whispered song Steals o'er the sense with sweetest languishment?

Hast thou the magic of the Beautiful, Wreathing about thy spirit evermore, In suns.h.i.+ne and in shadow; when the stars Gather around the azure dome of heaven, And the pale moon glides like a virgin bride Humbly behind the footsteps of her love: When the sweet morn dawns on the sleeping world To bring reality to visions bright; And on the curtain of dissolving mist Arches the many-tinted sign of heaven?

Hast thou the minstrelsie of the wild woods, Clear-tided strains floating along the sky, Swelling, subsiding, like a silvery sea Beneath the dulcet breathing of the south?

Hast thou that essence of all joyousness-- The glorious independence of the soul-- That spurneth man's usurped tyranny, The power of wealth, and hapless circ.u.mstance, And, sweeping on its own unaided wings, Measures the circuit of the boundless sky?

What is thy wealth, that fadeth in the use, And all the pomp and vanity it buys, To the rich treasure of undying thought, Encreasing evermore, till like a dower It benizon humanity for aye?

All thy poor gold resolveth into dust Before the test of such a scene as this: Can it charm forth the blossom of a flower Ere summer bids it with her gentle smile?

Can it restore the verdure to the leaf When yellow Autumn marks it for her own?

Or, in the noontide bid the dew-shower rise To fill one rosy chalice to the brim?

Go! gild thee with it, worldling, as thou wilt, Yet all thy pains will leave thee but a fool!

Ay! there is love to beckon me away And lead me to a fountain of delight, Gliding before me in its purity, Like some bright angel guiding souls to heaven.

O Love! have I not drained thee to the dregs, Thy pleasures and thy sorrows equally; Clinging unto thee as the Arab doth To his low fountain in the wilderness?

Have I not gazed into thy tender eyes And read the secret of thy holiness, Cleansing my soul in humbleness and faith, To shrine thee in thy fulness evermore?

Have I not clasped thee in my frenzied arms And heard thy heart-beats answer back to mine, Fainter and fainter till the deep voice stilled In the eternal silence of the grave?

O be to me henceforth but some sweet dream Illumining the sky of Memory: A fixed star of everlasting light To pilot me along the sea of life, And keep the bearings of the spirit true.

Visit me in imagination's train, The sweetest and the fairest child of Thought, Till thro' my being, as thro' columned aisles When incense from the altar upward wreaths, There float the fragrance of thy breath divine.

Circle my soul in its far wanderings Thro' spirit lands and empyrean heights, Where though it sink in wide bewilderment, Thou wilt enfold it in thy dewy arms, And pillow it to strength and fearlessness!

Be to me like a heaven beyond all Time, Dreamt of, and wors.h.i.+pped in this pilgrimage-- The habitation of all pure desire, Solace of sorrow, and the home of rest, Where I may lay me from life's troublous way, And feel Eternity rise in my soul!

No, World! the cords that bound me unto thee Are snapt in sunder ne'er to join again, Thy voice is waning fainter on mine ear, And thine allurements powerless and vain.

There springeth up within me a new want, A perfect yearning for the spiritual, That shaketh from its pinions all the cares And interests of earth, like cleaving dust That clogs its upward winging to the skies.

Wend onward, as thou wilt in weal or woe, Swell the rude triumph of thy battle march, Spread thy gay banners broadly to the wind, And let thy clarions ring among the spheres; Laurel thy heroes and thy favourites, And pluck the crowns again from off their brows; Wors.h.i.+p thy follies, and thine empty gains, And barter life for mammon--gold for dross.

Here let me lie upon the rear of Time, Unheeded, unremembered, and alone, Like a quick seed dropt by a flying dove, That groweth unto blossom and to fruit!

SCENE. _Night._