Part 4 (1/2)

Within the place unmanifest Where central Truth is immanent, Lies there a vast, entire content Of sound and movement one in rest?

I know not this. Yet in my heart, I feel that where all truths concur, The shrine is peaceless with the stir Of winds that enter and depart.

THE MASQUE OF FORSAKEN G.o.dS

SCENE: _A moonlit glade on a summer midnight_

THE POET

What consummation of the toiling moon O'ercomes the midnight blue with violet, Wherein the stars turn grey! The summer's green, Edged and strong by day, is dull and faint Beneath the moon's all-dominating mood, That in this absence of the impa.s.sioned sun, Sways to a sleep of sound and calm of color The live and vivid aspect of the world-- Subdued as with the great expectancy Which blurs beginning features of a dream, Things and events lost 'neath an omening Of central and oppressive bulk to come.

Here were the theatre of a miracle, If such, within a world long alienate From its first dreams, and shut with skeptic years, Might now befall.

THE PHILOSOPHER

The Huntress rides no more Across the upturned faces of the stars: 'Tis but the dead sh.e.l.l of a frozen world, Glittering with desolation. Earth's old G.o.ds-- The G.o.ds that haunt like dreams each planet's youth-- Are fled from years incredulous, and tired With penetrating of successive masks, That give but emptiness they served to hide.

Remains not faith enough to bring them back-- Pan to his wood, Diana to her moon, And all the visions that made populous An eager world where Time grows weary now.

Yet Youth, that lives, might for a little claim The pantheon of dream, on such a night, When 'neath the growing marvel of the moon The films of time wear perilously thin, And thought looks backward to the simpler years, Till all the vision seems but just beyond.

If one have faith, it may be that he shall Behold the G.o.ds--once only, and no more, Because of Time's inhospitality, For which they may not stay.

THE POET

Within the marvel of the light, what flower Of active wonder from quiescence springs!

Is it a throng of luminous white clouds, Phantoms of some old storm's death-driven t.i.tans, That float beneath the moon, and speak with voices Like the last echoes of a thunder spent?

'Tis the forsaken G.o.ds, that win a foothold About the magic circle which the moon Draws like some old enchantress round the glade.

THE PHILOSOPHER

I see them not: the vision is addressed Only to thine acute and eager youth.

JOVE

All heaven and earth were once my throne; Now I have but the wind alone For s.h.i.+fting judgment-seat.

The pillared world supported me: Yet man's old incredulity Left nothing for my feet.

PAN

Man hath forgotten me: Yet seems it that my memory Saddens the wistful voices of the wood; Within each erst-frequented spot Echo forgets my music not, Nor Earth my tread where trampling years have stood.

ARTEMIS