The Unknown Eros

XII.  MAGNA EST VERITAS

   Here, in this little Bay,Full of tumultuous life and great repose,Where, twice a day,The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes,Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town,I sit me down.For want of me the world’s course will not fail:When all its work is done, the lie shall rot;The truth is great, and shall prevail,When none cares whether it prevail or not.

XIII.  1867. 1

   In the year of the great crime,When the false English Nobles and their Jew,By God demented, slewThe Trust they stood twice pledged to keep from wrong,One said, Take up thy Song,That breathes the mild and almost mythic timeOf England’s prime!But I, Ah, me,The freedom of the fewThat, in our free Land, were indeed the free,Can song renew?Ill singing ’tis with blotting prison-bars,How high soe’er, betwixt us and the stars;Ill singing ’tis when there are none to hear;And days are nearWhen England shall forgetThe fading glow which, for a little while,Illumes her yet,The lovely smileThat grows so faint and wan,Her people shouting in her dying ear,Are not two daws worth two of any swan!   Ye outlaw’d Best, who yet are brightWith the sunken light,Whose common styleIs Virtue at her gracious ease,The flower of olden sanctities,Ye haply trust, by love’s benignant guile,To lure the dark and selfish broodTo their own hated good;Ye haply dreamYour lives shall still their charmful sway sustain,Unstifled by the fever’d steamThat rises from the plain.Know, ’twas the force of function high,In corporate exercise, and public aweOf Nature’s, Heaven’s, and England’s LawThat Best, though mix’d with Bad, should reign,Which kept you in your sky!But, when the sordid Trader caughtThe loose-held sceptre from your hands distraught,And soon, to the Mechanic vain,Sold the proud toy for nought,Your charm was broke, your task was sped,Your beauty, with your honour, dead,And though you still are dreaming sweetOf being even now not lessThan Gods and Goddesses, ye shall not long so cheatYour hearts of their due heaviness.Go, get you for your evil watching shriven!Leave to your lawful Master’s itching handsYour unking’d lands,But keep, at least, the dignityOf deigning not, for his smooth use, to be,Voteless, the voted delegatesOf his strange interests, loves and hates.In sackcloth, or in private strifeWith private ill, ye may please Heaven,And soothe the coming pangs of sinking life;And prayer perchance may winA term to God’s indignant moodAnd the orgies of the multitude,Which now begin;But do not hope to wave the silken ragOf your unsanction’d flag,And so to guideThe great ship, helmless on the swelling tideOf that presumptuous Sea,Unlit by sun or moon, yet inly brightWith lights innumerable that give no light,Flames of corrupted will and scorn of right,Rejoicing to be free.   And, now, because the dark comes on apaceWhen none can work for fear,And Liberty in every Land lies slain,And the two Tyrannies unchallenged reign,And heavy prophecies, suspended longAt supplication of the righteous few,And so discredited, to fulfilment throng,Restrain’d no more by faithful prayer or tear,And the dread baptism of blood seems nearThat brings to the humbled Earth the Time of Grace,Breathless be song,And let Christ’s own look throughThe darkness, suddenly increased,To the gray secret lingering in the East.

XIV.  ‘IF I WERE DEAD.’

   ‘If I were dead, you’d sometimes say, Poor Child!’The dear lips quiver’d as they spake,And the tears brakeFrom eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled.Poor Child, poor Child!I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song.It is not true that Love will do no wrong.Poor Child!And did you think, when you so cried and smiled,How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake,And of those words your full avengers make?Poor Child, poor Child!And now, unless it beThat sweet amends thrice told are come to thee,O God, have Thou no mercy upon me!Poor Child!

XV.  PEACE

   O England, how hast thou forgot,In dullard care for undisturb’d increaseOf gold, which profits not,The gain which once thou knew’st was for thy peace!Honour is peace, the peace which does accordAlone with God’s glad word:‘My peace I send you, and I send a sword.’O England, how hast thou forgot,How fear’st the things which make for joy, not fear,Confronted near.Hard days?  ’Tis what the pamper’d seek to buyWith their most willing gold in weary lands.Loss and pain risk’d?  What sport but understandsThese for incitements!  Suddenly to die,With conscience a blurr’d scroll?The sunshine dreaming upon Salmon’s heightIs not so sweet and whiteAs the most heretofore sin-spotted soulThat darts to its delightStraight from the absolution of a faithful fight.Myriads of homes unloosen’d of home’s bond,And fill’d with helpless babes and harmless women fond?Let those whose pleasant chanceTook them, like me, among the German towns,After the war that pluck’d the fangs from France,

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

1

In this year the middle and upper classes were disfranchised by Mr. Disraeli’s Government, and the final destruction of the liberties of England by the Act of 1884 rendered inevitable.