Spirits in Bondage | Page 7

twisted soul for ever riven

Between their will and mine-such lot I give
White still in my despite the vermin live.



They hate my world! Then let that other God
Come from the outer spaces glory-shod,

And from this castle I have built on Night
Steal forth my own thought's children into
light,
If such an one there be. But far away
He walks the airy fields of endless day,

And my rebellious sons have called Him long
And vainly called. My order still is
strong
And like to me nor second none I know.
Whither the mammoth went this
creature too shall go.
XIV. The Witch
Trapped amid the woods with guile
They've led her bound in fetters vile
To death, a
deadlier sorceress
Than any born for earth's distress
Since first the winner of the
fleece
Bore home the Colchian witch to GreeceSeven
months with snare and gin

They've sought the maid o'erwise within
The forest's labyrinthine shade.
The lonely
woodman half afraid
Far off her ragged form has seen
Sauntering down the alleys
green,
Or crouched in godless prayer alone
At eve before a Druid stone.
But now
the bitter chase is won,
The quarry's caught, her magic's done,
The bishop's brought
her strongest spell
To naught with candle, book, and bell;
With holy water splashed
upon her,
She goes to burning and dishonour
Too deeply damned to feel her shame,

For, though beneath her hair of flame
Her thoughtful head be lowly bowed
It droops
for meditation proud
Impenitent, and pondering yet
Things no memory can forget,

Starry wonders she has seen
Brooding in the wildwood green
With holiness. For who
can say
In what strange crew she loved to play,
What demons or what gods of old

Deep mysteries unto her have told
At dead of night in worship bent
At ruined shrines
magnificent,

Or how the quivering will she sent
Alone into the great alone
Where
all is loved and all is known,
Who now lifts up her maiden eyes
And looks around
with soft surprise
Upon the noisy, crowded square,
The city oafs that nod and stare,

The bishop's court that gathers there,
The faggots and the blackened stake
Where
sinners die for justice' sake?
Now she is set upon the pile,
The mob grows still a little
while,
Till lo! before the eager folk
Up curls a thin, blue line of smoke.
"Alas!" the
full-fed burghers cry,
"That evil loveliness must die!"
XV. Dungeon Grates
So piteously the lonely soul of man
Shudders before this universal plan,
So grievous
is the burden and the pain,
So heavy weighs the long, material chain
From cause to
cause, too merciless for hate,
The nightmare march of unrelenting fate,
I think that he
must die thereof unless
Ever and again across the dreariness
There came a sudden
glimpse of spirit faces,
A fragrant breath to tell of flowery places
And wider oceans,
breaking on the shore
From which the hearts of men are always sore.
It lies beyond
endeavour; neither prayer
Nor fasting, nor much wisdom winneth there,
Seeing how
many prophets and wise men
Have sought for it and still returned again
With hope
undone. But only the strange power
Of unsought Beauty in some casual hour
Can

build a bridge of light or sound or form
To lead you out of all this strife and storm;

When of some beauty we are grown a part
Till from its very glory's midmost heart

Out leaps a sudden beam of larger light
Into our souls. All things are seen aright

Amid the blinding pillar of its gold,
Seven times more true than what for truth we hold

In vulgar hours. The miracle is done
And for one little moment we are one
With
the eternal stream of loveliness
That flows so calm, aloft from all distress
Yet leaps
and lives around us as a fire
Making us faint with overstrong desire
To sport and
swim for ever in its deepOnly
a moment.
O! but we shall keep
Our vision still. One moment was enough,
We know we are not
made of mortal stuff.
And we can bear all trials that come after,
The hate of men and
the fool's loud bestial laughter
And Nature's rule and cruelties unclean,
For we have
seen the Glory-we have seen.
XVI. The Philosopher
Who shall be our prophet then,
Chosen from all the sons of men
To lead his fellows
on the way
Of hidden knowledge, delving deep
To nameless mysteries that keep

Their secret from the solar day!
Or who shall pierce with surer eye!
This shifting veil
of bittersweet
And find the real things that lie
Beyond this turmoil, which we greet

With such a wasted wealth of tears?
Who shall cross over for us the bridge of fears

And pass in to the country where the ancient Mothers dwell? Is it an elder, bent and hoar

Who, where the waste Atlantic swell
On lonely beaches makes its roar,
In his
solitary tower
Through the long night hour by hour
Pores on old books with watery
eye
When all his youth has passed him by,
And folly is schooled and love is dead

And frozen fancy laid abed,
While in his veins the gradual blood

Slackens to a marish
flood?
For he rejoiceth not in the ocean's might,
Neither the sun giveth delight,
Nor
the moon by night
Shall call his feet to wander in the haunted forest lawn.
He shall no
more rise suddenly in the dawn
When mists are white and the dew lies