Contemporary Belgian Poetry Part 32

Since the lightning that the storm forged bit, The bitter silence at the corners four Of the heath, has changed no whit.

The shepherds with their hundred years worn out, And the spent dogs that follow them about, See her, on golden dunes where shadows flit, Or in the noiseless moorland, sometimes sit, Immense, beneath the outspread wing of Night; Then waters on the wrinkled pond take fright; And the heather veils itself and palely glistens, And every leaf in every thicket listens, And the incendiary sunset stills The last cry of his light that o'er her thrills.

And the hamlets neighbouring her, beneath Their thatch of hovels on the heath, Shiver with terror, feeling her Dominant, though she do not stir; Mournful, and tired, and helpless they Stand in her presence as at bay, And watch benumbed, and nigh to swoon, Fearing, when mists shall lift, to see, Suddenly opening under the moon, The silver eyes of her mystery.

THE ROPE-MAKER.

At the dike's foot that wearily Curves along the sinuous sea, The visionary, silver-haired Rope-maker with arms bared, Pulling backwards as he stands, Rolls together, with prudent hands, The twisting play of endless twine, Coming from the far sky-line.

Down yonder in the sunset sheen, In the twilight tired and chill, A busy wheel is whizzing still, Moved by one who is not seen; But, parallel on stakes that s.p.a.ce The road from equal place to place, The yellow hemp that the roper draws Runs in a chain that never flaws.

With skilful fingers thin and old, Fearing to break the glint of gold That with his work the gliding light Blends by the houses growing dim, The visionary roper weaves Out of the heart of the eddying eves, And draws the horizons unto him.

Horizons? Those of red sunsets: Furies, hatred, fights, regrets, Sobs of beings broken-hearted, Horizons of the days departed, Writhen, golden, overcast; Horizons of the living past.

Of old--the life of strayed somnambulists, When the right hand of G.o.d to Canaans blue The road of gold through gloaming deserts drew, Through morns and evenings swayed with shifting mists.

Of old--exasperated life careering Hanging from stallions' manes, lighting the dense Darkness with heels that flashed out gleams immense, Towards immensity immensely rearing.

Of old--it was a life of burning leaven; When the Red Cross of h.e.l.l and Heaven's White Through miles of marshalled mail that shed the light Marched each through blood towards its victory's heaven.

Of old--it was a foaming, livid life, Living and dead, with tocsin bells and crime, Edicts and ma.s.sacres reddening the time, With mad and splendid death above the strife.

Between the flax and osiers, On the road where nothing stirs, Along the houses growing dim, The visionary roper weaves Out of the heart of the eddying eves, And draws the horizon unto him.

Horizons? There they linger yet: Toil, and science, struggle, fret.

Horizons? There at even-chime, They in their mirrors show the mourning Image of the present time.

Now, a ma.s.s of fires that belch defiance, Where wise men, leagued in mighty storm and stress, Hurl the G.o.ds down to change the nothingness Whereunto strives the force of human science.

Now, lo! a room that ruthless thought has swept, Weighed and exactly measured, and men swear The firmament is arched by empty air; And Death is in gla.s.s bottles corked and kept.

Now, lo! a glowing furnace, and resistance Of matter molten in fire's dragon dens; New strengths are forged, far mightier than men's, To swallow up the night, and time, and distance.

Here, lo! a palace tiredly built, and lying Beneath a century's weight, bowed down and yellow, And whence, in terror, mighty voices bellow, Invoking thunder towards adventure flying.

Upon the regular road, with eyes Fixed where the silent sunset dies, And leaves the houses drear and dim, The visionary roper weaves Out of the heart of the eddying eves, And draws the horizons unto him.

Horizons? Where yon sunset beams: Combats, hopes, awakenings, gleams; The horizons he can see defined In the future of his mind, Far beyond the sh.o.r.es that swim Sketched in the sky of sunsets dim.

Up yonder--in the calm skies hangs a red Staircase of double gold with steps of blue, With Dream and Science mounting it, the two Who separately climb to one stair-head.

The lightning clash of contraries expires; Doubt's mournful fist its fingers opes, while wed Essential laws that had been wont to shed In horal doctrines their fragmentary fires.

Up yonder--mind more strong and subtle darts Its violence past death and what is seen.

And universal love sheds a serene And mighty silence over tranquil hearts.

The G.o.d in every human heart, above, Unfolds, expands, and his own being sees In those who sometimes fell upon their knees To worship sacred grief and humble love.

Up yonder--living peace is burning bright, And shedding on these lands, down evening's slope A bliss that kindles, like the brands of hope, In the air's ash the great stars of the night.

At the dike's foot that wearily Curves along the sinuous sea Towards the distant eddying s.p.a.ces, The visionary roper paces Along the houses growing dim, And drinks the horizons into him.

SAINT GEORGE.

By a broad flash the fog was split, And Saint George, with gold and jewels lit, Came down the slope of it, With feathers foaming from his crest, Riding a charger with a milky breast, And in its mouth no bit.

With diamonds decked the two Made of their fall a path of pity to This earth of ours from Heaven's blue.

Heroes with helpful virtues dowered, Sonorous with courage, heroes crystalline, O through my heart now let the radiance shine That from his aureolar sword is showered!

O let me hear the silver prattle Of the wind around his coat of mail, And around his spurs in battle; Saint George, who shall prevail, He who has heard the cries of my distress, And comes to save from scaith My poor arms stretched unto his great prowess!

Like a loud cry of faith, He holds his lance at rest, Saint George; He pa.s.ses, I behold A victory as of a haggard gold, I see his forehead with the Chrism blessed: Saint George of duty, Bright with his heart's and his own beauty.

Sound, all ye voices of my hope!

Sound in myself, and on the sun-swept slope, And high roads, and the shaded avenue!

And, gleams of silver between stones, be you Joy, and you pebbles white with waters ope Your eyes, and look Up through the brook Whose ripples o'er you roll, And, landscape with thy crimson lakes, be thou The mirror of the flights of flame that now Saint George takes to my soul!

Against the black dragon's teeth, Against the pustules of a leprous skin He is the glaive and the miraculous sheath.

Charity on his cuira.s.s burns, and in His courage is the bounding overthrow Of instinct swart with sin.

Fire golden-sifted, fire that wheels, And eddying stars in which his glory lies, Flashed from his charger's galloping heels, Dazzle my memory's eyes.

The beautiful amba.s.sador is he From the white country that with marble glows, Where in the parks, on the sea's strand, and on the tree Of goodness, kindness gently grows.

The port, he knows it, where the vessels ride, With angels filled, upon a rippling tide; And the long evenings lighting islands fair But motionless upon their waters, where, And in eyes also, firmaments are seen.

This kingdom hath the Virgin for its Queen, And St. George is the humble joy of her palace, In the air his falchion glimmers like a chalice; Saint George with his devouring light, Who like a fire of gold dispels my spirit's night.

He knows how far my feet have wandered, He knows the strength that I have squandered, And with what fogs my brain has fought, He knows what keen a.s.sa.s.sin knives Have cut black crosses in my thought, He knows my scorn of rich men's lives, He knows the mask of wrath and folly Upon the dregs of my melancholy.

I was a coward in my flight Out of the world in my sick, vain defiance; I have lifted, under the roofs of night, The golden marbles of a hostile science To the barred summits of black oracles; But the King of the Night is Death; And man but in the dawning's breath His enigmatic effort spells; When flowers unclose, prayer too uncloses, With the scent of prayer their lips are sweet, And the white sun on a nacreous water-sheet Is a kiss that on man's lips reposes; Dawn is a counsel to be bold, And he who hearkens is tenfold Saved from the marsh that never yet cleansed sin.

Saint George in cuira.s.s glittering With leaps of fire sprung Unto my soul through the fresh morning; He was beautiful with faith and young;

And more to me he bent As he beheld me penitent; As from an intimate golden phial He filled me with his soaring; Though he was proud unto my sight, I laid the sweet flowers of my trial In his pale hand of blest restoring; Then signed he, ere he did depart, My brow with his lance's cross of gold, Bade me be of good cheer and bold, And soared, and bore to G.o.d my heart.

IN THE NORTH.