A LAST DREAM.
Three against one! Three giants it was plain—
While I might scarcely dot our battle ground,
Which glimmered east and west, and north and south,
Farther than eye might see. But all the while,
For I was sinewed by our God himself,
I knew that I should conquer. And I quailed
No jot, who shudder now, even but to think
What secret, deadly and remorseless ways
They took to break me. For one covered o'er
With his vast hand, heaven's gracious breadth of light,
That terror-stricken in the ghastly fields,
My heart might burst and die. One slowly sucked
The life blood at its fount; and from my brain
The healthy vigor went, and in its place
There was a motley whirl of fantasies,
A dreadful dance of wicked things, that struck
Strange gleams and painful lightnings through my lids
Which still I saw upon the midnight snow,
Mingling with pure auroras from the bergs,
And meteors' silver flashes. And one—one
Loaded these limbs with dull, invisible chains,
So subtilly imposed, so stern-and still,
It seemed to lull the will into accord,
And hoodwink all my soul with trust. But no!
T rose, I strove with triple giant strength,
And heaved, as earthquakes mountains from their shoulders,
The settling weights away, and heard them slide
Into that night of sound, that northward far,
Where the white sea-gull flies, for leagues on leagues,
Wraps in its shadowy arms the gleaming coast.
Loathing and shuddering, at length I drew
The clinging fury from my heart—and lo!
Not overhead, I think, nor from the east,
Where the sun has its solemn, annual birth,
Nor glazing the waste whiteness, nor unsheathing
The glaciers' keen swords,—but fine and still,
And as it seemed, dilating from a seed
Of light within,—light peaceful, broad and soft,
Grew round me where I stood. And God, who watched
The battle from his trembling depths of Night,
In sign and seal of this my victory,
Sends his calm angel here, who folds an arm
About and leads me safe, I ask not where,
For heart and life are pillowed on his love.
While I might scarcely dot our battle ground,
Which glimmered east and west, and north and south,
Farther than eye might see. But all the while,
For I was sinewed by our God himself,
I knew that I should conquer. And I quailed
No jot, who shudder now, even but to think
What secret, deadly and remorseless ways
They took to break me. For one covered o'er
With his vast hand, heaven's gracious breadth of light,
That terror-stricken in the ghastly fields,
My heart might burst and die. One slowly sucked
The life blood at its fount; and from my brain
The healthy vigor went, and in its place
There was a motley whirl of fantasies,
A dreadful dance of wicked things, that struck
Strange gleams and painful lightnings through my lids
Which still I saw upon the midnight snow,
Mingling with pure auroras from the bergs,
And meteors' silver flashes. And one—one
Loaded these limbs with dull, invisible chains,
So subtilly imposed, so stern-and still,
It seemed to lull the will into accord,
And hoodwink all my soul with trust. But no!
T rose, I strove with triple giant strength,
And heaved, as earthquakes mountains from their shoulders,
The settling weights away, and heard them slide
Into that night of sound, that northward far,
Where the white sea-gull flies, for leagues on leagues,
Wraps in its shadowy arms the gleaming coast.
Loathing and shuddering, at length I drew
The clinging fury from my heart—and lo!
Not overhead, I think, nor from the east,
Where the sun has its solemn, annual birth,
Nor glazing the waste whiteness, nor unsheathing
The glaciers' keen swords,—but fine and still,
And as it seemed, dilating from a seed
Of light within,—light peaceful, broad and soft,
Grew round me where I stood. And God, who watched
The battle from his trembling depths of Night,
In sign and seal of this my victory,
Sends his calm angel here, who folds an arm
About and leads me safe, I ask not where,
For heart and life are pillowed on his love.
Will any say, I yielded,—drawing near
Those lists of high renown, where the gaunt Three
And I fought the dumb battle out, and left
No trace in the blown, desert fields?—Nay, far
Beyond the last low wall of crimson light,
That struggles to hedge off with baby gleam,
The insurging Dark,—where sits the sceptred cold
Impassible and still, and the awed sea
Groans only and upheaves in marble waves,
When the black sleet-wind whispers, Mutiny!
There is a shaft, as all the world may know,
A monument of ice uptowering dim
Into the heavens' crowned mystery—whereon
Are graven with touches of the light, a name,
And following that, a chronicle of deeds.
And when the brief, high history makes end,
The page of ice goes on—"And one day, Earth,
Gray mother, bound with frost and torn with fire,
Shall surely be redeemed by hero dust.
Each sluggish, atom of her sphere, shall bloom
Nobly in human shape, and take the print,
And do the mandate of a godlike will,
Until her apotheosis be won.
Dear then to her and to the silent Powers,
And borne on their strong wings above defeat,
And fear of mockery, all they who build
In stern emprise a shrine for the Unseen;
Making life poor to show how rich it is.
Round them heaven's flaming currents stoop and play,
And lap the stifling vapors of the world,
Till the space freshens into festal depths;
And Soul, before a royal mendicant,
Pensioned of flesh along her dusky way,
Goes forth with bounty to exultant crowds,
With pulse of music ordering the winds,
And trumpets blowing the eternal morn.
And so to guard from loss and blight of Time
The memory of such faith, and of a will
That thrilled our adamant from coast to coast,
This pale resplendent pillar of the frost.
Scores the dark, grasping air. But he who held
Within his eyes, the sacred fire that pierced
Our ancient mysteries, and laid them bare
Behind their five-fold barriers, afar
Wins smiles from other heavens, and breathes the meed
Of mighty toils—the insatiate sweet of rest."
Be it then—rest. All round the scented coast
Flashes the living sea; and on my brow
I feel the silken touches of strange winds;
While overhead such light, and sumptuous blue,
And rustle of great plumes! Still thought toils on
In memory:—and over me those words
That kindle the wild gleam around, throb out:
And still I hear an under voice which says,
That what we do is better than ourselves,
Being held unto the service of His will
By the strong hand that fashioned us. Even so.
But by that stair I climb to God at last,
Trampling on ease and low usurping wants;
And through innumerable spheres upreaching,
And Nights and Days till I am lost in Him.
Those lists of high renown, where the gaunt Three
And I fought the dumb battle out, and left
No trace in the blown, desert fields?—Nay, far
Beyond the last low wall of crimson light,
That struggles to hedge off with baby gleam,
The insurging Dark,—where sits the sceptred cold
Impassible and still, and the awed sea
Groans only and upheaves in marble waves,
When the black sleet-wind whispers, Mutiny!
There is a shaft, as all the world may know,
A monument of ice uptowering dim
Into the heavens' crowned mystery—whereon
Are graven with touches of the light, a name,
And following that, a chronicle of deeds.
And when the brief, high history makes end,
The page of ice goes on—"And one day, Earth,
Gray mother, bound with frost and torn with fire,
Shall surely be redeemed by hero dust.
Each sluggish, atom of her sphere, shall bloom
Nobly in human shape, and take the print,
And do the mandate of a godlike will,
Until her apotheosis be won.
Dear then to her and to the silent Powers,
And borne on their strong wings above defeat,
And fear of mockery, all they who build
In stern emprise a shrine for the Unseen;
Making life poor to show how rich it is.
Round them heaven's flaming currents stoop and play,
And lap the stifling vapors of the world,
Till the space freshens into festal depths;
And Soul, before a royal mendicant,
Pensioned of flesh along her dusky way,
Goes forth with bounty to exultant crowds,
With pulse of music ordering the winds,
And trumpets blowing the eternal morn.
And so to guard from loss and blight of Time
The memory of such faith, and of a will
That thrilled our adamant from coast to coast,
This pale resplendent pillar of the frost.
Scores the dark, grasping air. But he who held
Within his eyes, the sacred fire that pierced
Our ancient mysteries, and laid them bare
Behind their five-fold barriers, afar
Wins smiles from other heavens, and breathes the meed
Of mighty toils—the insatiate sweet of rest."
Be it then—rest. All round the scented coast
Flashes the living sea; and on my brow
I feel the silken touches of strange winds;
While overhead such light, and sumptuous blue,
And rustle of great plumes! Still thought toils on
In memory:—and over me those words
That kindle the wild gleam around, throb out:
And still I hear an under voice which says,
That what we do is better than ourselves,
Being held unto the service of His will
By the strong hand that fashioned us. Even so.
But by that stair I climb to God at last,
Trampling on ease and low usurping wants;
And through innumerable spheres upreaching,
And Nights and Days till I am lost in Him.