Eidola.
by Frederic Manning.
THE CHOOSERS
O ye! Fragile, tremulous Haunters of the deep glades, Whose fingers part the leaves Of beech and aspen ere ye slip thro", Shall I see ye again?
Men have said unto me: These are but flying lights and shadows, Light on the beech-boles, clouds shadowing the corn-fields, The wind in the flame of birches in autumn, Wind shadowing the clear pools.
But ye cried, laughing, down the wind: _Men are but shadows, but a vain breath!_
So here cometh unto me That cry from the rejoicing air: Men are but shadows! And p.r.o.ne about me I see them, hushed and sleeping in the hut, Made solemn and holy by the night, In the dead light o" the moon: Shadowy, swathed in their blankets, As sleep, in hewn sepulchral caves, Egypt"s and Asia"s kings.
While between them are the footsteps Of glittering presences, who say: Lo, one To be a sword upon my thigh!
And the sleepers stir restlessly and murmur As between them pa.s.s The bright-mailed choosers of the dead.
Shall I see ye again, O flying feet O" the forest-haunters, while I couch silent, In a wet brake o" blossom, Dark ivy wreathing your whiteness; Ere I am torn from the scabbard: (Lo, one To be a sword upon my thigh!) Knowing no longer that earth Lieth in the dews, shining and sacred?
SACRIFICE
Love suffereth all things.
And we, Out of the travail and pain of our striving, Bring unto thee the perfect prayer: For the heart of no man uttereth love, Suffering even for love"s sake.
For us no splendid apparel of pageantry, Burnished breast-plates, scarlet banners and trumpets Sounding exultantly.
But the mean things of the earth hast thou chosen, Decked them with suffering, Made them beautiful with the pa.s.sion for rightness, Strong with the pride of love.
Yea, tho" our praise of thee slayeth us, Yet love shall exalt us beside thee triumphant, Dying, that these live: And the earth again be beautiful with orchards, Yellow with wheatfields, And the lips of others praise thee, tho" our lips Be stopped with earth, and songless.
But we shall have brought thee their praises, Brought unto thee the perfect prayer: For the lips of no man uttereth love, Suffering even for love"s sake.
O G.o.d of sorrows, Whose feet come softly thro" the dews, Stoop thou unto us, For we die so thou livest, Our hearts the cups of thy vintage: And the lips of no man uttereth love, Suffering even for love"s sake.
RELIEVED
FOR S. J. KIMM
We are weary and silent, There is only the rhythm of marching feet; Tho" we move tranced, we keep it As clock-work toys.
But each man is alone in this mult.i.tude; We know not the world in which we move, Seeing not the dawn, earth pale and shadowy, Level lands of tenuous grays and greens; For our eye-b.a.l.l.s have been seared with fire.
Only we have our secret thoughts, Our sense floats out from us, delicately apprehensive, To the very fringes of our being, Where light drowns.
REACTION
What make you here, Aphrodite, Lady of the Golden Cymbals, Would you dance to awaken earth again As of old on Ida?
Here are no threshing-floors....
Men call you delicate, a lover of softness: Making thine images of ivory, stained with sanguine; Strewing frail petals of roses before you; Bringing you soft stuffs of sea-dyes, Vermilion and saffron sandals, Floating wimples of filmy webs, that veil you, As clear water the glittering limbs Of a nymph beloved of Pan.
But you come among us, With sleepy eyelids, and a sleep-soft smile, Ere we have sc.r.a.ped our boots of the mud That is half human....
You come, tho" we are killing the lice in our shirts, To fill our eyes with the wine of your vision, Tho" we are weary, and our hearts Emptied of the old jests.
_Satia te sanguine_ You come among men; laughing At the ramp of the strange beasts Roaring our songs in estaminets, With our hands hungry for life again.
You are come curious of our crude intoxications, The savage pleasures and the gross l.u.s.ts, Being weary of the veiled lights, the whispers, The languid colours, and rare spiced meats That of old delighted you In Paphos.
You would couch with us in the golden straw Of these great Gothic barns, With curious curved beams arching, as in shadowy aisles; While through the broken mud-wall Light rays, Like the golden dust On Danae poured.
And we turn from the harshness of swords, Hungering for you....
And know not that your b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Carven delicately of ivory and gold, The lips, red and subtile, Are born of the bitter sea-foam and bright blood.
THE OLD CALVARY
TO THE REV. D. L. PROSSER
It is propped in a corner of the yard, Where vines wreathe it With leaves and delicate tendrils; A mutilated trunk, Worn, and gray with weather stains; Lichens cling to its flesh as a leprosy.
But for a moment I stood in adoration, Reverent, as the sun-rays Struck between the glistening leaves; Lighting the frail, lean form, The shrunken flanks, That knew more suffering than held The agonies of Laoc.o.o.n.
For the memory of many prayers clung to it, Tenderly, and glistening, Even as the delicate vine To the sacred flesh.
THE GUNS
Menace, hidden, but pulsing in the air of night: Then a throbbing thunder, split and seared With the scarlet flashes of innumerable sh.e.l.ls, And against it, suddenly, a sh.e.l.l, closer; A purr that changes to a whine Like a beast of prey that has missed its kill, And again, closer.
But even in the thunder of the guns There is a silence: and the soul groweth still.
Yea, it is cloaked in stillness: And it is not fear.
But the torn and screaming air Trembles under the onset of warring angels With terrible and beautiful faces; And the soul is stilled, knowing these awful shapes, That burden the night with oppression, To be but the creatures of its own l.u.s.ts.