Later Poems Part 25

He shall be born a spirit, Part of the soul that yearns, The core of vital gladness That suffers and discerns, The stir that breaks the budding sheath When the green spring returns,--

The gist of power and patience Hid in the plasmic clay, The calm behind the senses, The pa.s.sionate essay To make his wise and lovely dream Immortal on a day.

The soft, Aprilian ardors That warm the waiting loam Shall whisper in his pulses To bid him overcome, And he shall learn the wonder-cry Beneath the azure dome.

And though all-dying nature Should teach him to deplore, The ruddy fires of autumn Shall lure him but the more To pa.s.s from joy to stronger joy, As through an open door.

He shall have hope and honor, Proud trust and courage stark, To hold him to his purpose Through the unlighted dark, And love that sees the moon's full orb In the first silver arc.

And he shall live by kindness And the heart's cert.i.tude, Which moves without misgiving In ways not understood, Sure only of the vast event,-- The large and simple good.

_Then Gabriel's host in silver gear And vesture twilight blue, The spirits of immortal mind, The warders of the true, Took up the theme that gives the world Significance anew._

He shall be born to reason, And have the primal need To understand and follow Wherever truth may lead,-- To grow in wisdom like a tree Unfolding from a seed.

A watcher by the sheepfolds, With wonder in his eyes, He shall behold the seasons, And mark the planets rise, Till all the marching firmament Shall rouse his vast surmise.

Beyond the sweep of vision, Or utmost reach of sound, This cunning fire-maker, This tiller of the ground, Shall learn the secrets of the suns And fathom the profound.

For he must prove all being Sane, beauteous, benign, And at the heart of nature Discover the divine,-- Himself the type and symbol Of the eternal trine.

He shall perceive the kindling Of knowledge, far and dim, As of the fire that brightens Below the dark sea-rim, When ray by ray the splendid sun Floats to the world's wide brim.

And out of primal instinct, The lore of lair and den, He shall emerge to question How, wherefore, whence, and when, Till the last frontier of the truth Shall lie within his ken.

_Then Michael's scarlet-suited host Took up the word and sang; As though a trumpet had been loosed In heaven, the arches rang; For these were they who feel the thrill Of beauty like a pang._

He shall be framed and balanced For loveliness and power, Lithe as the supple creatures, And colored as a flower, Sustained by the all-feeding earth, Nurtured by wind and shower,

To stand within the vortex Where surging forces play, A poised and pliant figure Immutable as they, Till time and s.p.a.ce and energy Surrenders to his sway.

He shall be free to journey Over the teeming earth, An insatiable seeker, A wanderer from his birth, Clothed in the fragile veil of sense, With fort.i.tude for girth.

His hands shall have dominion Of all created things, To fashion in the likeness Of his imaginings, To make his will and thought survive Unto a thousand springs.

The world shall be his province, The princedom of his skill; The tides shall wear his harness, The winds obey his will; Till neither flood, nor fire, nor frost, Shall work to do him ill.

A creature fit to carry The pure creative fire, Whatever truth inform him, Whatever good inspire, He shall make lovely in all things To the end of his desire.

St. Michael's Star

In the pure solitude of dusk One star is set to shine Above the sundown's dying rose, A lamp before a shrine.

It is the star of Michael lit In the minster of the sun, That every toiling hand may give Thanks for the day's work done.

For when the almighty word went forth To bid creation be,-- The glimmering star-tracks on the blue, The tide-belts on the sea,-- Perfect as planned, from Michael's hand The lasting hills arose, Their bases on the poppied plain, Their peaks in bannered snows.

Cedar and thorn and oak were born; Green fiddleheads uncurled In the spring woods; gold adder-tongues Came forth to glad the world;-- The magic of the punctual seeds, Each with its pregnant powers, As the lord Michael fashioned them To keep their days and hours.

Frail fins to ride the monstrous tide, Soft wings to poise and gleam, He formed the pageant tribe by tribe As vivid as a dream.

And still must his beneficence Renew, create, sustain, Sorcery of the wind and sun, Alchemy of the rain.

Teeming with G.o.d, the kindly sod Yearns through the summer days With the mute eloquence of flowers, Its only means of praise.

At dusk and dawn the tranquil hills Throb to the song of birds, And all the dim blue silence thrills To transport not of words.

For earth must breed to spirit's need, Clay to the finer clay, That soul through sense find recompense And rapture on her way.

And man, from dust and dreaming wrought, To all things must impart The trend and likeness of his thought, The pa.s.sion of his heart.

The love and lore he shall acquire To word and deed must dare; Resemblances of G.o.d his sire His voice and mien must bear.

His children's children shall portray The skill which he bestows On living; and what life must mean His craftsman's instinct knows.

Line upon line and tone by tone, The visioned form he gives To sound and color, wood and stone, Takes loveliness and lives.

He sees his project's soaring hope Grow substance, and expand To measure a diviner scope Beneath his patient hand.

To pencil, brush, and burnisher His wizardry he lends, And to the care of lathe and loom His secret he commends.

In hues and forms and cadences New beauty he instills, A brother by the right of craft To Michael of the hills.

The Dreamers

Charlemagne with knight and lord, In the hill at Ingelheim, Slumbers at the council board, Seated waiting for the time.

With their swords across their knees In that chamber dimly lit, Chin on breast life effigies Of the dreaming G.o.ds, they sit.

Long ago they went to sleep, While great wars above them hurled.

Taking counsel how to keep Giant evil from the world.

Golden-armored, iron-crowned, There in silence they await The last war,--in war renowned, Done with doubting and debate.

What is all our clamor for?

Petty virtue, puny crime, Beat in vain against the door Of the hill at Ingelheim.

When at last shall dawn the day For the saving of the world, They will forth in war array, Iron-armored, golden-curled.

In the hill at Ingelheim, Still, they say, the Emperor, Like a warrior in his prime, Waits the message at the door.

Shall the long enduring fight Break above our heads in vain, Plunged in lethargy and night, Like the men of Charlemagne?

Comrades, through the Council Hall Of the heart, inert and dumb, Hear ye not the summoning call, "Up, my lords, the hour is come!"

El Dorado