The gentle Beings of the hearth and home;
The lovely Dryads of her aislèd woods;
The Angels that do dwell in solitudes
Where she dwelleth; and joyous Spirits that roam
To bless her bleating flocks and fruitful lands;
Are gather'd there to weep, and kiss her dying hands.
"Look, look," they cry, "she is not dead, she breathes!
And we have staunched the damnèd wound and deep,
The cavern-carven wound. She doth but sleep
And will awake. Bring wine, and new-wound wreaths
Wherewith to crown awaking her dear head,
And make her Queen again."—But no, for Peace was dead.
And then there came black Lords; and Dwarfs obscene
With lavish tongues; and Trolls; and treacherous Things
Like loose-lipp'd Councillors and cruel Kings
Who sharpen lies and daggers subterrene:
And flashed their evil eyes and weeping cried,
"We ruled the world for Peace. By her own hand she
died."
*
In secret he made sharp the bitter blade,
And poison'd it with bane of lies and drew,
And stabb'd—O God! the Cruel Cripple slew;
And cowards fled or lent him trembling aid.
She fell and died—in all the tale of time
The direst deed e'er done, the most accursèd crime.
APOCALYPSE
THE visions of the soul, more strange than dreams,
Out-mystery sleep. For them, no day redeems,
And the thing is, but is not as it seems.
I thought I saw (although I did not sleep)
A Raft that clomb the surges black and steep
With One who cursed the dumb God-blinded Deep.
