Volume I Part 15 (1/2)

_Zerah._ Shall it need be so?

Awake, thou Earth! behold.

Thou, uttered forth of old In all thy life-emotion, In all thy vernal noises, In the rollings of thine ocean, Leaping founts, and rivers running,-- In thy woods' prophetic heaving Ere the rains a stroke have given, In thy winds' exultant voices When they feel the hills anear,-- In the firmamental sunning, And the tempest which rejoices Thy full heart with an awful cheer.

Thou, uttered forth of old And with all thy music rolled In a breath abroad By the breathing G.o.d,-- Awake! He is here! behold!

Even _thou_-- beseems it good To thy vacant vision dim, That the deadly ruin should, For thy sake, encompa.s.s him?

That the Master-word should lie A mere silence, while his own Processive harmony, The faintest echo of his lightest tone, Is sweeping in a choral triumph by?

Awake! emit a cry!

And say, albeit used From Adam's ancient years To falls of acrid tears, To frequent sighs unloosed, Caught back to press again On bosoms zoned with pain-- To corses still and sullen The s.h.i.+ne and music dulling With closed eyes and ears That nothing sweet can enter, Commoving thee no less With that forced quietness Than the earthquake in thy centre-- Thou hast not learnt to bear This new divine despair!

These tears that sink into thee, These dying eyes that view thee, This dropping blood from lifted rood, They darken and undo thee.

Thou canst not presently sustain this corse-- Cry, cry, thou hast not force!

Cry, thou wouldst fainer keep Thy hopeless charnels deep, Thyself a general tomb Where the first and the second Death Sit gazing face to face And mar each other's breath, While silent bones through all the place 'Neath sun and moon do faintly glisten And seem to lie and listen For the tramp of the coming Doom.

Is it not meet That they who erst the Eden fruit did eat, Should champ the ashes?

That they who wrap them in the thunder-cloud Should wear it as a shroud, Peris.h.i.+ng by its flashes?

That they who vexed the lion should be rent?

Cry, cry ”I will sustain my punishment, The sin being mine; but take away from me This visioned Dread--this man--this Deity!”

_The Earth._ I have groaned; I have travailed: I am weary.

I am blind with my own grief, and cannot see, As clear-eyed angels can, his agony, And what I see I also can sustain, Because his power protects me from his pain.

I have groaned; I have travailed: I am dreary, Hearkening the thick sobs of my children's heart: How can I say ”Depart”

To that Atoner making calm and free?

Am I a G.o.d as he, To lay down peace and power as willingly?

_Ador._ He looked for some to pity. There is none.

All pity is within him and not for him.

His earth is iron under him, and o'er him His skies are bra.s.s.

His seraphs cry ”Alas!”

With hallelujah voice that cannot weep.

And man, for whom the dreadful work is done ...

_Scornful Voices from the Earth_. If verily this _be_ the Eternal's son--

_Ador._ Thou hearest. Man is grateful.

_Zerah._ Can I hear Nor darken into man and cease for ever My seraph-smile to wear?

Was it for such, It pleased him to overleap His glory with his love and sever From the G.o.d-light and the throne And all angels bowing down, For whom his every look did touch New notes of joy on the unworn string Of an eternal wors.h.i.+pping?

For such, he left his heaven?

There, though never bought by blood And tears, we gave him grat.i.tude: We loved him there, though unforgiven.

_Ador._ The light is riven Above, around, And down in lurid fragments flung, That catch the mountain-peak and stream With momentary gleam, Then perish in the water and the ground.

River and waterfall, Forest and wilderness, Mountain and city, are together wrung Into one shape, and that is shapelessness; The darkness stands for all.

_Zerah._ The pathos hath the day undone: The death-look of His eyes Hath overcome the sun And made it sicken in its narrow skies.

_Ador._ Is it to death? He dieth.

_Zerah._ Through the dark He still, he only, is discernible-- The naked hands and feet transfixed stark, The countenance of patient anguish white, Do make themselves a light More dreadful than the glooms which round them dwell, And therein do they s.h.i.+ne.

_Ador._ G.o.d! Father-G.o.d!