Songs Before Sunrise Part 4

"By my saying she saith to you, in your ears she saith, Who hear these things, Put no trust in men's royalties, nor in great men's breath, Nor words of kings.

"For the life of them vanishes and is no more seen, Nor no more known; Nor shall any remember him if a crown hath been, Or where a throne.

"Unto each man his handiwork, unto each his crown, The just Fate gives; Whoso takes the world's life on him and his own lays down, He, dying so, lives.

"Whoso bears the whole heaviness of the wronged world's weight And puts it by, It is well with him suffering, though he face man's fate; How should he die?

"Seeing death has no part in him any more, no power Upon his head; He has bought his eternity with a little hour, And is not dead.

"For an hour, if ye look for him, he is no more found, For one hour's s.p.a.ce; Then ye lift up your eyes to him and behold him crowned, A deathless face.

"On the mountains of memory, by the world's wellsprings, In all men's eyes, Where the light of the life of him is on all past things, Death only dies.

"Not the light that was quenched for us, nor the deeds that were, Nor the ancient days, Nor the sorrows not sorrowful, nor the face most fair Of perfect praise."

So the angel of Italy's resurrection said, So yet he saith; So the son of her suffering, that from b.r.e.a.s.t.s nigh dead Drew life, not death.

That the pavement of Golgotha should be white as snow, Not red, but white; That the waters of Babylon should no longer flow, And men see light.

THE HALT BEFORE ROME--SEPTEMBER 1867

Is it so, that the sword is broken, Our sword, that was halfway drawn?

Is it so, that the light was a spark, That the bird we hailed as the lark Sang in her sleep in the dark, And the song we took for a token Bore false witness of dawn?

Spread in the sight of the lion, Surely, we said, is the net Spread but in vain, and the snare Vain; for the light is aware, And the common, the chainless air, Of his coming whom all we cry on; Surely in vain is it set.

Surely the day is on our side, And heaven, and the sacred sun; Surely the stars, and the bright Immemorial inscrutable night: Yea, the darkness, because of our light, Is no darkness, but blooms as a bower-side When the winter is over and done;

Blooms underfoot with young gra.s.ses Green, and with leaves overhead, Windflowers white, and the low New-dropped blossoms of snow; And or ever the May winds blow, And or ever the March wind pa.s.ses, Flames with anemones red.

We are here in the world's bower-garden, We that have watched out the snow.

Surely the fruitfuller showers, The splendider sunbeams are ours; Shall winter return on the flowers, And the frost after April harden, And the fountains in May not flow?

We have in our hands the shining And the fire in our hearts of a star.

Who are we that our tongues should palter, Hearts bow down, hands falter, Who are clothed as with flame from the altar, That the kings of the earth, repining, Far off, watch from afar?

Woe is ours if we doubt or dissemble, Woe, if our hearts not abide.

Are our chiefs not among us, we said, Great chiefs, living and dead, To lead us glad to be led?

For whose sake, if a man of us tremble, He shall not be on our side.

What matter if these lands tarry, That tarried (we said) not of old?

France, made drunken by fate, England, that bore up the weight Once of men's freedom, a freight Holy, but heavy to carry For hands overflowing with gold.

Though this be lame, and the other Fleet, but blind from the sun, And the race be no more to these, Alas! nor the palm to seize, Who are weary and hungry of ease, Yet, O Freedom, we said, O our mother, Is there not left to thee one?

Is there not left of thy daughters, Is there not one to thine hand?

Fairer than these, and of fame Higher from of old by her name; Washed in her tears, and in flame Bathed as in baptism of waters, Unto all men a chosen land.

Her hope in her heart was broken, Fire was upon her, and clomb, Hiding her, high as her head; And the world went past her, and said (We heard it say) she was dead; And now, behold, she bath spoken, She that was dead, saying, "Rome."

O mother of all men's nations, Thou knowest if the deaf world heard!

Heard not now to her lowest Depths, where the strong blood slowest Beats at her bosom, thou knowest, In her toils, in her dim tribulations, Rejoiced not, hearing the word.

The sorrowful, bound unto sorrow, The woe-worn people, and all That of old were discomforted, And men that famish for bread, And men that mourn for their dead, She bade them be glad on the morrow, Who endured in the day of her thrall.

The blind, and the people in prison, Souls without hope, without home, How glad were they all that heard!

When the winged white flame of the word Pa.s.sed over men's dust, and stirred Death; for Italia was risen, And risen her light upon Rome.

The light of her sword in the gateway Shone, an unquenchable flame, Bloodless, a sword to release, A light from the eyes of peace, To bid grief utterly cease, And the wrong of the old world straightway Pa.s.s from the face of her fame:

Hers, whom we turn to and cry on, Italy, mother of men: From the light of the face of her glory, At the sound of the storm of her story, That the sanguine shadows and h.o.a.ry Should flee from the foot of the lion, Lion-like, forth of his den.

As the answering of thunder to thunder Is the storm-beaten sound of her past; As the calling of sea unto sea Is the noise of her years yet to be; For this ye knew not is she, Whose bonds are broken in sunder; This is she at the last.

So spake we aloud, high-minded, Full of our will; and behold, The speech that was halfway spoken Breaks, as a pledge that is broken, As a king's pledge, leaving in token Grief only for high hopes blinded, New grief grafted on old.

We halt by the walls of the city, Within sound of the clash of her chain.

Hearing, we know that in there The lioness chafes in her lair, Shakes the storm of her hair, Struggles in hands without pity, Roars to the lion in vain.

Whose hand is stretched forth upon her?

Whose curb is white with her foam?

Clothed with the cloud of his deeds, Swathed in the shroud of his creeds, Who is this that has trapped her and leads, Who turns to despair and dishonour Her name, her name that was Rome?

Over fields without harvest or culture, Over hordes without honour or love, Over nations that groan with their kings, As an imminent pestilence flings Swift death from her shadowing wings, So he, who hath claws as a vulture, Plumage and beak as a dove.

He saith, "I am pilot and haven, Light and redemption I am Unto souls overlaboured," he saith; And to all men the blast of his breath Is a savour of death unto death; And the Dove of his worship a raven, And a wolf-cub the life-giving Lamb.

He calls his sheep as a shepherd, Calls from the wilderness home, "Come unto me and be fed,"

To feed them with ashes for bread And gra.s.s from the graves of the dead, Leaps on the fold as a leopard, Slays, and says, "I am Rome,"

Rome, having rent her in sunder, With the clasp of an adder he clasps; Swift to shed blood are his feet, And his lips, that have man for their meat, Smoother than oil, and more sweet Than honey, but hidden thereunder Festers the poison of asps.

As swords are his tender mercies, His kisses as mortal stings; Under his hallowing hands Life dies down in all lands; Kings pray to him, p.r.o.ne where he stands, And his blessings, as other men's curses, Disanoint where they consecrate kings.

With an oil of unclean consecration, With effusion of blood and of tears, With uplifting of cross and of keys, Priest, though thou hallow us these, Yet even as they cling to thy knees Nation awakens by nation, King by king disappears.

How shall the spirit be loyal To the sh.e.l.l of a spiritless thing?

Erred once, in only a word, The sweet great song that we heard Poured upon Tuscany, erred, Calling a crowned man royal That was no more than a king.

Sea-eagle of English feather, A song-bird beautiful-souled, She knew not them that she sang; The golden trumpet that rang From Florence, in vain for them, sprang As a note in the nightingales' weather Far over Fiesole rolled.

She saw not--happy, not seeing - Saw not as we with her eyes Aspromonte; she felt Never the heart in her melt As in us when the news was dealt Melted all hope out of being, Dropped all dawn from the skies.

In that weary funereal season, In that heart-stricken grief-ridden time, The weight of a king and the worth, With anger and sorrowful mirth, We weighed in the balance of earth, And light was his word as a treason, And heavy his crown as a crime.