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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - Quatrains Of Life
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 ``Glory of glories!`` Thus it was they chaunted,
 But not to Heaven for which men blindly panted,
 Rather to that Hell`s master who hath held
 Their backs to pain in labour covenanted.

 To him the honour and obedience due
 Of their lost Moab where the bluebells blew,
 Now the sad washpot of his engines` slime,
 Their childhood`s Edom darkened by his shoe.

 Through that dim murk no glimpse of the Divine
 Shall pierce with song where the sun dares not shine,
 No praise of beauty in a land all bleared
 With poison--smoke and waters aniline?

 Better they died unchronicled. Their room
 Would then be for each weed that wreathed their tomb,
 More beautiful than they with all their love
 It is not worth a spray of butcher`s broom.

 All this I read as in an open book
 Wandering in bye paths with my pilgrim`s crook,
 Through Alp and Apennine and Eastward on
 To where the Balkans on the Danube look.

 On Trajan`s wall I lay in the tall grass
 And watched the Tartar shepherds wandering pass.
 A boy was blowing in his flute below;
 Afar the river shone, a sea of glass.

 This was the world`s once boundary; and beyond
 What terrors reigned for fearful hearts and fond,
 The Scythian wilderness, where were--wolves were
 And night for ever lay in frozen bond!

 The subtle wonder of the desert came
 And touched my longing with its breath of flame.
 I too, methought, sad child of a new age,
 Would learn its mystery and inscribe my name,

 Clothed in the garments of its ancient past,
 My race forgotten and my creed outcast,
 On some lone pile whence centuries look down
 On days unchanged the earliest with the last.

 As Abraham was at Mamre on the leas,
 I too would be, or Ur of the Chaldees,
 Feeding my flocks in patience at God`s hand,
 Guided by signs and girt with mysteries.

 With staff in hand and wallet for all need,
 Footing the goat--tracks or with ass for steed,
 Clad in mean raiment, with attendants none,
 And fed on locusts as the prophets feed.

 Climbing the dunes each morning to behold
 The world`s last miracle of light enfold
 The Eastern heaven, and see the victor sun
 Press back the darkness with his spears of gold.

 The fair Earth, pure in her sweet nakedness,
 Should smile for me each day with a new face,
 Her only lover; and her virgin sands
 Should be my daily sacrilege to press.

 The deep blue shadows of the rocks at noon
 My tent should be from a burnt world in swoon,
 Rocks scored with what dead names of worshippers,
 Of Gods as dead, the sun and stars and moon.

 There would I stand in prayer, with unshod feet
 And folded arms, at Time`s true mercy seat,
 Making my vows to the one God of gods
 Whose praise the Nations of the East repeat.

 Haply some wonder of prophetic kind
 My eyes should see to the world`s reason blind,
 Some ladder to the Heaven, or a face
 Speaking in thunder to me from the wind.

 I lay in the tall grass, and overhead
 The ravens called who once Elisha fed.
 It was a message meet for my desires,
 And I arose and followed where they led,

 Arose and followed;--and behold, at hand,
 With tinkling bells and tread as if on sand,
 Toward me spectral from the Orient came
 The pilgrim camels of that holy Land.

 The rock of Horeb is the holiest place
 Of all Earth`s holies. In the wilderness
 It stands with its gaunt head bare to the heaven
 As when God spake with Moses face to face.

 Red in the eternal sunset of the years,
 Crowned with a glory the world`s evening wears,
 Where evening is with morning a first day
 Unchanged in the mute music of the Spheres.

 From base to top the boulder crags high thrown
 Fortress the plain which Israel camped upon,
 A living presence in the unliving waste,
 A couchant lion with a mane of stone.

 Aloft in the dread shadow of his brows
 And shut from summer suns and winter snows,
 When snows there be in the parched wilderness,
 A cell I found and of it made my house.

 A single hewn stone chamber, carved of old
 By hermits` hands, of rocks with labour rolled,
 Undoored, unwindowed, with the earth for floor,
 Within, an altar where their beads they told.

 Without, a rood of soil and a scant spring,
 Their garden once, where deep in the vast ring
 Of those grave granite domes they delved and prayed,
 One thorn tree its sole life left blossoming.

 There laid I down the burden of my care
 And dwelt a space in the clean upper air.
 I dwelt, how many days or months or years
 I know not, for I owned no calendar;

 Only the rising of the winter`s sun
 Daily more northward as the months moved on,
 Only the sun`s return along his ways
 When summer slackened his first rage outrun;

 Only the bee--birds passing overhead
 With their Spring twitter and eyes crimson red,
 The storks and pelicans in soldier bands,
 The purple doves that stayed to coo and wed;

 These and the shepherds of the waste, the few
 Poor Bedouin clansmen, with their weak flocks, who
 Strayed through the valleys at appointed days,
 As water failed them or the herbage grew,

 Lean hungry--eyed wild sons of Ishmael
 Who climbed the rocks and sought me in my cell
 With their poor wares of butter, dates and corn
 And almond--cake in skins and hydromel,

 Unwise in the world`s learning, yet with gleams
 Of subtler instinct than the vain world deems,
 Glimpses of faiths transmitted from afar
 In signs and wonders and revealed in dreams.

 They taught me their strange knowledge, how to read
 The forms celestial ordered to Man`s need,
 To count on sand the arrow heads of fate
 And mark the bird`s flight and the grey hare`s speed.

 The empty waste informed with their keen eyes
 Became a scroll close writ with mysteries
 Unknown to reason yet compelling awe
 With that brave folly which confounds the wise.

 Nor less the faith was there of the revealed
 God of their fathers, Ishmael`s sword and shield,
 Their own, the Merciful, the Compassionate,
 By martyrs witnessed in the stricken field.

 His name was on their lips, a living name.
 His law was in their hearts, their pride in shame.
 His will their fortitude in hours of ill
 When the skies rained not and the locusts came.

 I learned their creed in this as in the rest,
 Making submission to God`s ways as best.
 What matter if in truth the ways were His,
 So I should abdicate my own unblest!

 And thus I might have lived--and died, who knows,
 A Moslem saint, on those high mountain brows,
 Prayed to by alien lips in alien prayer
 As intercessor for their mortal woes,

 Lived, died, and been remembered for some good
 In the world`s chronicle of brotherhood,
 Nor yet through strife with his own Bedlam kind,
 The Hydra--headed Saxon multitude.

 But for the clamour of untimely war,
 The sound of Nations marching from afar.
 Their voice was on the tongue of winds and men,
 Their presaging in sun and moon and star.

 I dreamed a dream of our fair mother Earth
 In her first beauty, ere mankind had birth,
 Peopled with forms how perfect in design,
 How rich in purpose, of what varied worth,

 Birds, four--foot beasts and fishes of the Sea
 Each in its kind and order and degree
 Holding their place unchid, her children all,
 And none with right to strain her liberty.

 Her deep green garment of the forest glade
 Held monsters grim, but none was there afraid.
 The lion and the antelope lay down
 In the same thicket for their noon--day shade.

 The tyranny of strength was powerless all
 To break her order with unseemly brawl.
 No single kind, how stout soe`er of limb,
 Might drive her weakest further than the wall.

 All was in harmony and all was true
 On the green Earth beneath her tent of blue.
 When lo, the advent of her first born lie,
 The beast with mind from which her bondage grew.

 O woeful apparition! what a shape
 To set the world`s expectancy agape,
 To crown its wonders! what lewd naked thing
 To wreck its Paradise! The human ape!

 Among the forms of dignity and awe
 It moved a ribald in the world of law,
 In the world`s cleanness it alone unclean,
 With hairless buttocks and prognathous jaw.

 Behold it in that Eden once so fair,
 Pirate and wanton, a blind pillager,
 With axe and fire and spade among the trees
 Blackening a league to build itself a lair.

 Behold it marshalling its court,--soft kine,
 And foolish sheep and belly--lorded swine,
 Striding the horse anon, high--mettled fool,
 And fawned on by the dog as one divine.

 Outrage on sense and decent Nature`s pride!
 Feast high of reason--nay of Barmecide,
 Where every guest goes hungry but this one,
 The Harpy--clawed, too foul to be denied!

 I saw it, and I blushed for my Man`s race,
 And once again when in the foremost place
 Of human tyranny its latest born
 Stood threatening conquest with an English face.

 Chief of the sons of Japhet he, with hand
 Hard on the nations of the sea and land,
 Intolerant of all, tongues, customs, creeds,
 Too dull to spare, too proud to understand.

 I saw them shrink abashed before his might,
 Like tropic birds before the sparrow`s flight.
 The world was poorer when they fled. But he
 Deemed he had done ``God`` service and ``his right.``

 I saw it and I heard it and I rose
 With the clear vision of a seer that knows.
 I had a message to the powers of wrong
 And counted not the number of my foes.

 I stood forth in the strength of my soul`s rage
 And spoke my word of truth to a lewd age.
 It was the first blow struck in that mad war,
 My last farewell to my fair hermitage.

 O God of many battles! Thou that art
 Strong to withstand when warriors close and part,
 That art or wast the Lord of the right cause!
 How has thy hand grown feeble in its smart!

 How are the vassals of thy power to--day
 Set in rebellion mastering the fray!
 Blaspheming Thee they smite with tongues obscene,
 While these Thy saints lie slaughtered where they pray.

 How is the cauldron of thy wrath the deepest,
 Cold on its stones? No fire for it thou heapest.
 Thou in the old time wert a jealous God.
 Thieves have dishonoured Thee. And lo, Thou sleepest!

 Between the camps I passed in the still night,
 The breath of heaven how pure, the stars how bright.
 On either hand the life impetuous flowed
 Waiting the morrow which should crown the fight.

 How did they greet it? With what voice, what word,
 What mood of preparation for the sword?
 On this side and on that a chaunt was borne
 Faint on the night--wind from each hostile horde.

 Here lay the camps. The sound from one rose clear,
 A single voice through the thrilled listening air.
 ``There is no God but God,`` it cried aloud.
 ``Arise, ye faithful, `tis your hour of prayer.``

 And from the other? Hark the ignoble chorus,
 Strains of the music halls, the slums before us.
 Let our last thought be as our lives were there,
 Drink and debauchery! The drabs adore us.

 And these were proved the victors on that morrow,
 And those the vanquished, fools, beneath war`s harrow.
 And the world laughed applauding what was done,
 And if the angels wept none heard their sorrow.

 What has my life been in its last best scene
 Stripped of Time`s violence, its one serene
 Experience of things fair without a flaw,
 Its grasp of Heaven`s own paradisal green?

 After the storm the clouds white laughters fly;
 After the battle hark the children`s cry!
 After the stress of pain, if God so will,
 We too may taste our honey ere we die.

 What little secret `tis we need discover!
 How small a drop to make the cup brim over!
 A single word half spoken between two,
 And Heaven is there, the loved one and the lover.

 Tell me not, thou, of youth as Time`s last glory.
 Tell not of manhood when it strikes its quarry.
 The prime of years is not the prime of pleasure.
 Give me life`s later love when locks are hoary,

 Love, when the hurry and the rush are past,
 Love when the soul knows what will fade what last,
 The worth of simple joys youth trampled on,
 Its pearl of price upon the dunghill cast.

 Time was, I mocked, I too, at life`s plain blisses,
 The rustic treasure of connubial kisses,
 The bourgeois wealth of amorous maid and man
 Made man and wife in legal tendernesses.

 Time was, but is not, since the scales of pride
 Fell from my eyes and left me glorified.
 Now `tis the world`s turn. Let it laugh at me,
 Who care not, having Love`s self on my side.

 How came I by this jewel, this sweet friend,
 This best companion of my lone life`s end?
 So young she was, so fair, of soul so gay,
 And I with only wisdom to commend.

 I looked into her eyes and saw them seek
 My own with questions, roses on her cheek.
 One sign there is of love no words belie,
 The soul`s wide windows watching where lips speak.

 What wouldst thou with me, thou dear wise one, say?
 My face is withered, my few locks are grey.
 Time has dealt with me like a dolorous Jew.
 My gold he holds; in silver now I pay.

 How shall I serve thee? Shall I be thy priest,
 To read thy dear sins to the last and least?
 I have some knowledge of the ways of men,
 Some too of women. Wilt thou be confessed?

 Nay, but thou lovest? A gay youth and fair?
 Is he less kind to thee than lovers are?
 Shall I chastise him for his backward ways,
 Teach him thy whole worth and his own despair?

 Thou dost deny? Thou lovest none? To thee
 Youth, sayest thou, is void, mere vanity.
 Yet how to build up life and leave out love,
 The corner stone of all its joys to be?

 Thou wouldst be wise. Thou swearest to me this.
 Know then, all wisdom is but happiness.
 So thou art happy, there is none more sage
 Than thou of the wise seven famed of Greece.

 She did not answer me, but heaved a sigh
 And raised her eyes, where tears stood, silently.
 I kissed her hands, the outside and the in,
 ``Child, dost thou love me?`` And she whispered ``Ay.``

 Thus the thing happened. And between us two
 Was now a secret beautiful and new.
 We hid it from all eyes as fearing ill,
 And cherished it in wonder, and it grew.

 Some say that Heaven is but to be with God,
 Hell--but without God--the same blest abode.
 How wide the difference only those may know
 Whose eyes have seen the glory and the cloud.

 We two beheld the glory. Every morn
 We rose to greet it with the day new born;
 No laggards we when Love was in the fields
 Waiting to walk there with us in the corn.

 O those first hours of the yet folded day,
 While Man still sleeps and Nature has its play,
 When beast and bird secure from death and him
 Wander and wanton in their own wild way.

 These were our prize untroubled by the whim
 Of slugging fools still wrapped in dreamings dim.
 In these we lived a whole life ere their day
 And heard the birds chaunt and the seraphim.

 How good it was to see her through the grass,
 Pressing to meet me with her morning face
 Wreathed in new smiles by the sweet thought within
 Triumphant o`er the world and worldlings base!

 How good to mark her beauty decked anew
 With leaf and blossom, crimson, white and blue!
 The beechen spray fresh gathered in her hand
 Was her queen`s sceptre diamonded with dew.

 I heard her young voice long ere she was near,
 Calling her call--note of the wood dove clear.
 It was our signal. And I answered low
 In the same note, ``Beloved, I am here.``

 And then the meeting. Who shall count the bliss
 Of sweet words said and sweeter silences.
 It was agreed between us we should wed
 Some happy day nor yet forestall a kiss.

 Sublime convention by true lovers made
 To try their joy more nearly in the shade.
 ``Not yet, dear love! Thy mad lips take from mine,
 Lest thou shouldst harm me and the world upbraid.``

 Who says a wedding day is not all white
 From dawn to dusk, nay far into the night?
 The man who makes not that one day divine
 Dullard is he and dastard in Love`s sight.

 First day of the new month, the honeymoon,
 Last of the old life naked and alone.
 The apparent heirship come to actual reign,
 The entrance in possession of a throne.

 Why grudge rejoicings? The vain world is there.
 It sees the feast spread that it may not share.
 God`s angels envy thee; then why not these?
 Let them make merry with thy wealth to spare.

 Nay, join it thou. The foolish old life waits,
 A slave discharged, to see thee to the gates.
 Give it thy bounty, though it claim thy all,
 Thy clothes, thy bed, thy empty cups and plates.

 The world hath loved thee, or it loved thee not,
 What matter now! Thou needest raise no doubt.
 All smile on thee to--day, the false, the true.
 The new king pardons. Shout then with their shout.

 Thy friends surround thee, sceptics of thy reason.
 They ply thee gaily in and out of season.
 Thou in thy heart the while art far away
 True to thy god. Thou heedest not their treason.

 Proud in the face of all thou vowest thy vow,
 Love in thine eyes and glory on thy brow,
 Thou hast sworn to cherish her, to have, to hold,
 ``Till death us twain do part.`` Ah she! Ah thou!

 What has my life been? Nay, my life is good.
 Dear life, I love thee, now thou art subdued.
 Thou hast fled the battle, cast thine arms away,
 And so art victor of the multitude.

 Thou art forgotten wholly of thy foes,
 Of thy friends wholly, these alike with those.
 One garden of the world thy kingdom is
 Walled from the wicked, and there blooms thy rose.

 She that I love lives there and lives with me.
 Enough, kind heaven, I make my terms with thee.
 Worth, wealth, renown, power, honour--shadows all!
 This is the substance, this reality.

 O world that I have known! how well, things, men,
 Glories of vanity, the sword, the pen!
 Fair praise of kings, applause of crowds--nay more,
 Saints` pure approval of the loss and gain!

 High deeds of fame which made the eyelids brim
 With tears of pride grief`s anguish could not dim,
 The day of triumph crowning all the days,
 The harvest of the years brought home by Time!

 What are you to Man`s heart, his soul, his sense
 Prouder than this, more robed in incidence?
 The cry of the first babe, his own, and hers,
 Thrilling to joy? Ah matchless eloquence!

 The wisdom of all Time is in that cry,
 The knowledge of Life`s whence, at last, and why,
 The root of Love new grafted in the tree,
 Even as it falls, which shall not wholly die.

 To rest in a new being! Here it stands
 The science of all ages in all lands,
 The joy which makes us kin with the Earth`s life,
 And knits us with all Nature joining hands,

 Till we forget our heritage of gloom,
 Our dark humanity how near its doom.
 Away! Man`s soul was a disease. `Tis fled
 Scared by this infant face of perfect bloom.

 And so, farewell, poor passionate Life, the past.
 I close thy record with this word, ``Thou wast.``
 Why wait upon the Future? Lo To--day
 Smiles on our tears, Time`s toy, his best and last.
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