Like a live word of God's mouth spoken, Visible sound, light audible, In the great darkness thick as hell A stanchless flame of love unsloken, A sign to conquer and compel, A law to stand in heaven unbroken Whereby the sun shines, and wherethrough Time's eldest empires are made new; So rose up on our generations That light of the most ancient nations, Law, life, and light, on the world's way, The very God of very day, The sun-god; from their star-like stations Far down the night in disarray Fled, crowned with fires of tribulations, The suns of sunless years, whose light And life and law were of the night. The naked kingdoms quenched and stark Drave with their dead things down the dark, Helmless; their whole world, throne by throne, Fell, and its whole heart turned to stone, Hopeless; their hands that touched our ark Withered; and lo, aloft, alone, On time's white waters man's one bark, Where the red sundawn's open eye Lit the soft gulf of low green sky. So for a season piloted It sailed the sunlight, and struck red With fire of dawn reverberate The wan face of incumbent fate That paused half pitying overhead And almost had foregone the freight Of those dark hours the next day bred For shame, and almost had forsworn Service of night for love of morn. Then broke the whole night in one blow, Thundering; then all hell with one throe Heaved, and brought forth beneath the stroke Death; and all dead things moved and woke That the dawn's arrows had brought low, At the great sound of night that broke Thundering, and all the old world-wide woe; And under night's loud-sounding dome Men sought her, and she was not Rome. Still with blind hands and robes blood-wet Night hangs on heaven, reluctant yet, With black blood dripping from her eyes On the soiled lintels of the skies, With brows and lips that thirst and threat, Heart-sick with fear lest the sun rise, And aching with her fires that set, And shuddering ere dawn bursts her bars, Burns out with all her beaten stars. In this black wind of war they fly Now, ere that hour be in the sky That brings back hope, and memory back, And light and law to lands that lack; That spiritual sweet hour whereby The bloody-handed night and black Shall be cast out of heaven to die; Kingdom by kingdom, crown by crown, The fires of darkness are blown down. Yet heavy, grievous yet the weight Sits on us of imperfect fate. From wounds of other days and deeds Still this day's breathing body bleeds; Still kings for fear and slaves for hate Sow lives of men on earth like seeds In the red soil they saturate; And we, with faces eastward set, Stand sightless of the morning yet. And many for pure sorrow's sake Look back and stretch back hands to take Gifts of night's giving, ease and sleep, Flowers of night's grafting, strong to steep The soul in dreams it will not break, Songs of soft hours that sigh and sweep Its lifted eyelids nigh to wake With subtle plumes and lulling breath That soothe its weariness to death. And many, called of hope and pride, Fall ere the sunrise from our side. Fresh lights and rumours of fresh fames That shift and veer by night like flames, Shouts and blown trumpets, ghosts that glide Calling, and hail them by dead names, Fears, angers, memories, dreams divide Spirit from spirit, and wear out Strong hearts of men with hope and doubt. Till time beget and sorrow bear The soul-sick eyeless child despair, That comes among us, mad and blind, With counsels of a broken mind, Tales of times dead and woes that were, And, prophesying against mankind, Shakes out the horror of her hair To take the sunlight with its coils And hold the living soul in toils. By many ways of death and moods Souls pass into their servitudes. Their young wings weaken, plume by plume Drops, and their eyelids gather gloom And close against man's frauds and feuds, And their tongues call they know not whom To help in their vicissitudes; For many slaveries are, but one Liberty, single as the sun. One light, one law, that burns up strife, And one sufficiency of life. Self-stablished, the sufficing soul Hears the loud wheels of changes roll, Sees against man man bare the knife, Sees the world severed, and is whole; Sees force take dowerless fraud to wife, And fear from fraud's incestuous bed Crawl forth and smite his father dead: Sees death made drunk with war, sees time Weave many-coloured crime with crime, State overthrown on ruining state, And dares not be disconsolate. Only the soul hath feet to climb, Only the soul hath room to wait, Hath brows and eyes to hold sublime Above all evil and all good, All strength and all decrepitude. She only, she since earth began, The many-minded soul of man, From one incognizable root That bears such divers-coloured fruit, Hath ruled for blessing or for ban The flight of seasons and pursuit; She regent, she republican, With wide and equal eyes and wings Broods on things born and dying things. Even now for love or doubt of us The hour intense and hazardous Hangs high with pinions vibrating Whereto the light and darkness cling, Dividing the dim season thus, And shakes from one ambiguous wing Shadow, and one is luminous, And day falls from it; so the past Torments the future to the last. And we that cannot hear or see The sounds and lights of liberty, The witness of the naked God That treads on burning hours unshod With instant feet unwounded; we That can trace only where he trod By fire in heaven or storm at sea, Not know the very present whole And naked nature of the soul; We that see wars and woes and kings, And portents of enormous things, Empires, and agonies, and slaves, And whole flame of town-swallowing graves; That hear the harsh hours clap sharp wings Above the roar of ranks like waves, From wreck to wreck as the world swings; Know but that men there are who see And hear things other far than we. By the light sitting on their brows, The fire wherewith their presence glows, The music falling with their feet, The sweet sense of a spirit sweet That with their speech or motion grows And breathes and burns men's hearts with heat; By these signs there is none but knows Men who have life and grace to give, Men who have seen the soul and live. By the strength sleeping in their eyes, The lips whereon their sorrow lies Smiling, the lines of tears unshed, The large divine look of one dead That speaks out of the breathless skies In silence, when the light is shed Upon man's soul of memories; The supreme look that sets love free, The look of stars and of the sea; By the strong patient godhead seen Implicit in their mortal mien, The conscience of a God held still And thunders ruled by their own will And fast-bound fires that might burn clean This worldly air that foul things fill, And the afterglow of what has been, That, passing, shows us without word What they have seen, what they have heard, By all these keen and burning signs The spirit knows them and divines. In bonds, in banishment, in grief, Scoffed at and scourged with unbelief, Foiled with false trusts and thwart designs, Stripped of green days and hopes in leaf, Their mere bare body of glory shines Higher, and man gazing surelier sees What light, what comfort is of these. So I now gazing; till the sense Being set on fire of confidence Strains itself sunward, feels out far Beyond the bright and morning star, Beyond the extreme wave's refluence, To where the fierce first sunbeams are Whose fire intolerant and intense As birthpangs whence day burns to be Parts breathless heaven from breathing sea. I see not, know not, and am blest, Master, who know that thou knowest, Dear lord and leader, at whose hand The first days and the last days stand, With scars and crowns on head and breast, That fought for love of the sweet land Or shall fight in her latter quest; All the days armed and girt and crowned Whose glories ring thy glory round. Thou sawest, when all the world was blind, The light that should be of mankind, The very day that was to be; And how shalt thou not sometime see Thy city perfect to thy mind Stand face to living face with thee, And no miscrowned man's head behind; The hearth of man, the human home, The central flame that shall be Rome? As one that ere a June day rise Makes seaward for the dawn, and tries The water with delighted limbs That taste the sweet dark sea, and swims Right eastward under strengthening skies, And sees the gradual rippling rims Of waves whence day breaks blossom-wise Take fire ere light peer well above, And laughs from all his heart with love; And softlier swimming with raised head Feels the full flower of morning shed And fluent sunrise round him rolled That laps and laves his body bold With fluctuant heaven in water's stead, And urgent through the growing gold Strikes, and sees all the spray flash red, And his soul takes the sun, and yearns For joy wherewith the sea's heart burns; So the soul seeking through the dark Heavenward, a dove without an ark, Transcends the unnavigable sea Of years that wear out memory; So calls, a sunward-singing lark, In the ear of souls that should be free; So points them toward the sun for mark Who steer not for the stress of waves, And seek strange helmsmen, and are slaves. For if the swimmer's eastward eye Must see no sunrise--must put by The hope that lifted him and led Once, to have light about his head, To see beneath the clear low sky The green foam-whitened wave wax red And all the morning's banner fly - Then, as earth's helpless hopes go down, Let earth's self in the dark tides drown. Yea, if no morning must behold Man, other than were they now cold, And other deeds than past deeds done, Nor any near or far-off sun Salute him risen and sunlike-souled, Free, boundless, fearless, perfect, one, Let man's world die like worlds of old, And here in heaven's sight only be The sole sun on the worldless sea. NOTES P. 7 That called on Cotys by her name. AEsch. Fr. 54 P. 94 Was it Love brake forth flower-fashion, a bird with gold on his wings? Ar. Av. 696. P. 161 That saw Saint Catherine bodily. Her pilgrimage to Avignon to recall the Pope into Italy as its redeemer from the distractions of the time is of course the central act of St. Catherine's life, the great abiding sign of the greatness of spirit and genius of heroism which distinguished this daughter of the people, and should yet keep her name fresh above the holy horde of saints, in other records than the calendar; but there is no less significance in the story which tells how she succeeded in humanizing a criminal under sentence of death, and given over by the priests as a soul doomed and desperate; how the man thus raised and melted out of his fierce and brutal despair besought her to sustain him to the last by her presence; how, having accompanied him with comfort and support to the very scaffold, and seen his head fall, she took it up, and turning to the spectators who stood doubtful whether the poor wretch could be "saved," kissed it in sign of her faith that his sins were forgiven him. The high and fixed passion of her heroic temperament gives her a right to remembrance and honour of which the miracle-mongers have done their best to deprive her. Cleared of all the refuse rubbish of thaumaturgy, her life would deserve a chronicler who should do justice at once to the ardour of her religious imagination and to a thing far rarer and more precious--the strength and breadth of patriotic thought and devotion which sent this girl across the Alps to seek the living symbol of Italian hope and unity, and bring it back by force of simple appeal in the name of God and of the country. By the light of those solid and actual qualities which ensure to her no ignoble place on the noble roll of Italian women who have deserved well of Italy, the record of her visions and ecstasies may be read without contemptuous intolerance of hysterical disease. The rapturous visionary and passionate ascetic was in plain matters of this earth as pure and practical a heroine as Joan of Arc. P. 164 There on the dim side-chapel wall. In the church of San Domenico. P. 165 But blood nor tears ye love not, you. In the Sienese Academy the two things notable to me were the detached wall-painting by Sodoma of the tortures of Christ bound to the pillar, and the divine though mutilated group of the Graces in the centre of the main hall. The glory and beauty of ancient sculpture refresh and satisfy beyond expression a sense wholly wearied and well-nigh nauseated with contemplation of endless sanctities and agonies attempted by mediaeval art, while yet as handless as accident or barbarism has left the sculptured goddesses. P. 168 Saw all Italian things save one. O patria mia, vedo le mura e gli archi, E le colonne e i simulacri e l'erme Torri degli avi nostri; Ma la gloria non vedo, Non vedo il lauro a il ferro ond' eran carchi I nostri padri antichi. LEOPARDI. P. 179 Mother, that by that Pegasean spring. Call. Lav. Pall. 105-112. P. 229 With black blood dripping from her eyes. AEsch. Cho. 1058.
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