Songs Before Sunrise Part 7

I am she that set my seal upon the nameless West worlds of seas; And my sons as brides took unto them the tameless Hesperides.

Till my sins and sons through sinless lands dispersed, With red flame shod, Made accurst the name of man, and thrice accursed The name of G.o.d.

Lest for those past fires the fires of my repentance h.e.l.l's fume yet smother, Now my blood would buy remission of my sentence; (Cho.) Hear us, O mother.

FRANCE

I am she that was thy sign and standard-bearer, Thy voice and cry; She that washed thee with her blood and left thee fairer, The same was I.

Were not these the hands that raised thee fallen and fed thee, These hands defiled?

Was not I thy tongue that spake, thine eye that led thee, Not I thy child?

By the darkness on our dreams, and the dead errors Of dead times near us; By the hopes that hang around thee, and the terrors; (Cho.) O mother, hear us.

RUSSIA

I am she whose hands are strong and her eyes blinded And lips athirst Till upon the night of nations many-minded One bright day burst: Till the myriad stars be molten into one light, And that light thine; Till the soul of man be parcel of the sunlight, And thine of mine.

By the snows that blanch not him nor cleanse from slaughter Who slays his brother; By the stains and by the chains on me thy daughter; (Cho.) Hear us, O mother.

SWITZERLAND

I am she that shews on mighty limbs and maiden Nor chain nor stain; For what blood can touch these hands with gold unladen, These feet what chain?

By the surf of spears one shieldless bosom breasted And was my shield, Till the plume-plucked Austrian vulture-heads twin-crested Twice drenched the field; By the snows and souls untrampled and untroubled That shine to cheer us, Light of those to these responsive and redoubled; (Cho.) O mother, hear us.

GERMANY

I am she beside whose forest-hidden fountains Slept freedom armed, By the magic born to music in my mountains Heart-chained and charmed.

By those days the very dream whereof delivers My soul from wrong; By the sounds that make of all my ringing rivers None knows what song; By the many tribes and names of my division One from another; By the single eye of sun-compelling vision; (Cho.) Hear us, O mother.

ENGLAND

I am she that was and was not of thy chosen, Free, and not free; She that fed thy springs, till now her springs are frozen; Yet I am she.

By the sea that clothed and sun that saw me splendid And fame that crowned, By the song-fires and the sword-fires mixed and blended That robed me round; By the star that Milton's soul for Sh.e.l.ley's lighted, Whose rays insphere us; By the beacon-bright Republic far-off sighted; (Cho.) O mother, hear us.

CHORUS

Turn away from us the cross-blown blasts of error, That drown each other; Turn away the fearful cry, the loud-tongued terror, O Earth, O mother.

Turn away their eyes who track, their hearts who follow, The pathless past; Shew the soul of man, as summer shews the swallow, The way at last.

By the sloth of men that all too long endure men On man to tread; By the cry of men, the bitter cry of poor men That faint for bread; By the blood-sweat of the people in the garden Inwalled of kings; By his pa.s.sion interceding for their pardon Who do these things; By the sightless souls and fleshless limbs that labour For not their fruit; By the foodless mouth with foodless heart for neighbour, That, mad, is mute; By the child that famine eats as worms the blossom --Ah G.o.d, the child!

By the milkless lips that strain the bloodless bosom Till woe runs wild; By the pastures that give gra.s.s to feed the lamb in, Where men lack meat; By the cities clad with gold and shame and famine; By field and street; By the people, by the poor man, by the master That men call slave; By the cross-winds of defeat and of disaster, By wreck, by wave; By the helm that keeps us still to sunwards driving, Still eastward bound, Till, as night-watch ends, day burn on eyes reviving, And land be found: We thy children, that arraign not nor impeach thee Though no star steer us, By the waves that wash the morning we beseech thee, O mother, hear us.

HERTHA

I am that which began; Out of me the years roll; Out of me G.o.d and man; I am equal and whole; G.o.d changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul.

Before ever land was, Before ever the sea, Or soft hair of the gra.s.s, Or fair limbs of the tree, Or the flesh-coloured fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me.

First life on my sources First drifted and swam; Out of me are the forces That save it or d.a.m.n; Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird; before G.o.d was, I am.

Beside or above me Nought is there to go; Love or unlove me, Unknow me or know, I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow.

I the mark that is missed And the arrows that miss, I the mouth that is kissed And the breath in the kiss, The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that is.

I am that thing which blesses My spirit elate; That which caresses With hands uncreate My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate.

But what thing dost thou now, Looking G.o.dward, to cry "I am I, thou art thou, I am low, thou art high"?

I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou art I.

I the grain and the furrow, The plough-cloven clod And the ploughshare drawn thorough, The germ and the sod, The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is G.o.d.

Hast thou known how I fashioned thee, Child, underground?

Fire that impa.s.sioned thee, Iron that bound, Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found?

Canst thou say in thine heart Thou hast seen with thine eyes With what cunning of art Thou wast wrought in what wise, By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast to the skies?

Who hath given, who hath sold it thee, Knowledge of me?

Hath the wilderness told it thee?

Hast thou learnt of the sea?

Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee?

Have I set such a star To show light on thy brow That thou sawest from afar What I show to thee now?

Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou?

What is here, dost thou know it?

What was, hast thou known?

Prophet nor poet Nor tripod nor throne Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone.

Mother, not maker, Born, and not made; Though her children forsake her, Allured or afraid, Praying prayers to the G.o.d of their fashion, she stirs not for all that have prayed.

A creed is a rod, And a crown is of night; But this thing is G.o.d, To be man with thy might, To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light.

I am in thee to save thee, As my soul in thee saith; Give thou as I gave thee, Thy life-blood and breath, Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death,

Be the ways of thy giving As mine were to thee; The free life of thy living, Be the gift of it free; Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee to me.

O children of banishment, Souls overcast, Were the lights ye see vanish meant Alway to last, Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast.

I that saw where ye trod The dim paths of the night Set the shadow called G.o.d In your skies to give light; But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight.

The tree many-rooted That swells to the sky With frondage red-fruited, The life-tree am I; In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and not die.

But the G.o.ds of your fashion That take and that give, In their pity and pa.s.sion That scourge and forgive, They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall die and not live.

My own blood is what stanches The wounds in my bark; Stars caught in my branches Make day of the dark, And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark.

Where dead ages hide under The live roots of the tree, In my darkness the thunder Makes utterance of me; In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea.

That noise is of Time, As his feathers are spread And his feet set to climb Through the boughs overhead, And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread.