Many Gods Part 9

Within his soul there was no fatal faction That could betray him in his hour of need.

IN TIME OF AWE

The fierce sea-sunset over the world Springs like a wounded spirit, The waves all day have hissed and hurled Their fangs and the spray has swept and swirled, And ships in the gray gale's lair have furled Their sails--well may they fear it!

The night will be but a monstrous seethe Of terrors elemental.

The clouds will wrap in a ghastly wreath Of gloom the winds that in them breathe, And all that lives in the sea beneath By fear shall be made gentle;

And sink down, down to the nether deeps, Below the foam and fretting.

Down where the sullen water sleeps Alway and the slow sand coldly creeps Over the lone wreck, which Death keeps To guard him 'gainst forgetting.

And there in the ominous vast calm They'll harbour, like enchanted Chill shapes he has strangely conjured from The silence of his masterdom; There float till again they feel the qualm Of hunger thro them panted.

And then once more far up will they spring, To drift and sport and plunder, Shark, eel and whale and devil-thing, With tooth to rend and tail to sting.

To the sea, O G.o.d, does horror cling And haunting past all wonder.

SUNRISE IN UTAH

The dun sand-cliffs that break the desert's sea Rose suddenly upon my sight at dawn, And terrible in an eternity Of death took silently the sunrise on.

Purple funereal from rifted skies Swept down across their proud sterility, Only to die as here all glory dies, On barrenness I did not dream could be.

O G.o.d, for a bird-song! or opening lips Of but one flower upon the fatal air, For but the voice of water as it drips, Or stir of leaves the day-wind makes aware!

O G.o.d, for these, for life! or from the face Of the world wipe so irreparable a place!

CONSOLATION

I

Come to me, shadows, down the hill, Lie softly at my feet.

The sun has worked his will And the day is done.

Come to me softly and distil Your dews and dreams, that heat And hours of heartless glare have overrun.

II

Come to me, shadows, down the hill And bring with you the night, Fire-flies and the whippoorwill And ah, the moon-- Whose soft interpretings can still The tangled tongues of right And wrong, and hope and fear, that haunt the noon.

III

Come to me, shadows, down the hill-- And let there follow Sleep, Which is G.o.d's tidal Will That overflows The world--obliterating ill, And in its soothing sweep Murmuring more of mercy than man knows.

WAVES

The evening sails come home With twilight in their wings.

The harbour-light across the gloam Springs; The wind sings.

The waves begin to tell The sea's night-sorrow o'er, Weaving within their ancient spell More Than earth's lore.

The rising moon wafts strange Low lures across the tide, On which my dim thoughts seem to range, Stride Upon stride, Until, with flooding thrill, They seem at last to blend With waves that from the Eternal Will Wend, Without end.

VIS ULTIMA

There is no day but leads me to A peak impossible to scale, A task at which my hands must fail, A sea I cannot swim or sail.

There is no night I suffer thro But Destiny rules stern and pale: And yet what I am meant to do I will do, ere Death drop his veil.

And it shall be no little thing, Tho to oblivion it fall, For I shall strive to it thro all That can imperil or appal.

So at each morning's trumpet-ring I mount again, less slave and thrall, And at the barriers gladly fling A fort.i.tude that scorns to crawl.

MEREDITH

What am I reading? He is dead?

He the great interpreter And seer--England's n.o.blest head?

What am I reading? It is hushed?

The deepest voice that life had found To read a century profound With all time's seethe and stir?

Why, it is but a scanty score Of days, since, at his side, Clasping his hand with more than pride, I felt that the immortal tide Of his great mind would long break o'er The cold command of Death.

Still in my ear is echoing The surf of his strong words, and still Against the wild trees on the Hill His cottage sheltered under, I see the toss of his gray locks, Like Lear's--for he had felt the sting Of all too greatly giving The kingdom of his mind to those Who for it held him mad.

O England, guard thy living Like him from a like fate!

For not the mighty thunder Of thy proud name from all the rocks Of all the world can compensate A nation whom no Song makes glad, And whom no Seer makes great.

THE END