A Celtic Psaltery Part 17
Away, away! one more such day-- And we're too weak for flying."
THE BURNING TEMPLE
The savage foes of this lost land of ours Conspire to fire Antonius' shapely towers.
Ere long the Temple proud, surpa.s.sing all Art's fairest gems, shall unto earth be bowed!
Lo! through the lurid gloom the lightning's lash!
And hark the unnatural thunder crash and boom!
Moriah's marvellous fane is leaning low; With cries of woe her rafters rend in twain; For our Imperial One is brought to naught.
Yea, even where most cunningly she was wrought, The fire has cleft its way each coign into, For wood and stone searching her bosom through.
Astonishingly high she took the blue, Yet weeping molten dross shall meet the ground-- A sight for grief profound to gaze across.
Flame follows flame, each like a giant worm, To feast and batten on her beauteous form.
Through gold and silver doors they sinuous swarm And crop the carven flowers with gust enorme; Till all is emptiness.
Then with h.e.l.lish shout The embruted Gentiles in exultant rout Into her Holy of Holies profanely press!
One streaming flood of steaming blood-- Shudders her sacred pavement!
LOVE DIVINE
(From "Emanuel." After Gwilym Hiraethog, 1802-1880.)
When the angel trumpet sounded.
Through the unbounded ether blown, Star on star danced on untiring, Choiring past the Great White Throne; Then as, every globe outglancing, Earth's entrancing orb went by, Love Divine in blushing pleasure Steeped the azure of the sky.
Wisdom, when she saw Earth singled From the bright commingled band, Whispered Mercy: "That green wonder Yonder is thy promised land!"
Mercy looked and loved Earth straightway, At Heaven's gateway smiling set.
Ah! that glance of tender yearning She is turning earthward yet.
BEHIND THE VEIL
(After Islwyn, 1832-1878, the Welsh Wordsworth)
What say ye, can we charge a master soul With error, when beyond all life's experience Between the cradle and the grave, it rises, Whispering of things unutterable, breaks its bond With outward sense and sinks into itself, As fades a star in s.p.a.ce? Hath not that soul A history in itself, a refluent tide Of mystery murmuring out of unplumbed deeps, On distant inaccessible strands, whereon Memory lies dead amid the monstrous wreckage Of jarring worlds? Are yonder stars above As spiritually, magnificently bright As Poesy feigns? May not some slumbering sense, A memory dim of those diviner days, When all the Heavens were yet aglow with G.o.d, Transfuse them through and through with glimmering grace And glory? Still the Stars within us shine, And Poesy is but a recollection Of Something greater gone, a presage proud Of Something greater yet to be. What soul But sometimes thrills with hauntings of a world For long forgotten, at a glimpse begotten Once more, then gone again? Imaginations?
Nay why not memories of a life than ours A thousand times more blest within us buried So deeply, the divine all-searching breath Of Poesy alone can lure it forth.
All hail that hour when G.o.d's Redeeming Face Shall so illume our past existences, That through them all man's spirit shall see plain, And to his blessed past relink Life's broken chain.
THE REIGN OF LOVE
(After Ceiriog, to a Welsh Air. Ceiriog, 1832-1887, was the Welsh Burns; his songs to old Welsh Airs are the best of their kind.)
Love that invites, love that delights, From hedgerow lush and leafy heights Is flooding all the air; Their forest harps the breezes strum, The happy brooks their burden hum; There's nothing deaf, there's nothing dumb, But music everywhere!
Above the airy steep Their lyres of gold the angels sweep, Glad holiday with earth to keep Before the Great White Throne.
Then, when Heaven and earth and sea Are joining in Love's jubilee; While morning stars make melody, Shall man be mute alone?
Naught that hath birth matches the worth Of Love, in G.o.d's own Heaven and Earth, For through His power divine Love opes the golden eye of day, Love guides the pale moon's lonely way, Love lights the glow-worm's glimmering ray Amid the darkling bine.
Heavenly hue and form Above, around, are glowing warm, From His right hand Who rides the storm, Yet paints the lily's cheek.
Yea! whereso'er man lifts his eyes To wood or wave or sunset skies, A myriad magic shapes arise Eternal Love to speak.
PLAS GOGERDDAN
(After Ceiriog to a Welsh Air)
"Without thy Sire hast thou returned?"
In grief the Princess cried!
"Go back!--or from my sight be spurned-- To battle by his side.
I gave thee birth; but struck to earth I'd sooner see thee lie, Or on thy bier come carried here, Than thus a craven fly!
"Seek yonder hall, and pore on all The portraits of thy race; The courage high that fires each eye Canst thou endure to face?"
"I'll bring no blame on thy fair name, Or my forefathers slight!
But kiss and bless me, mother dear, Ere I return to fight."
He fought and fell--his stricken corse They bore to her abode; "My son!" she shrieked, in wild remorse; "Forgive me, O! my G.o.d!"
Then from the wall old voices fall: "Rejoice for such a son!
His deed and thine shall deathless shine, Whilst Gwalia's waters run!"
ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT
_Ar Hyd y Nos_
(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)
Fiery day is ever mocking Man's feeble sight; Darkness eve by eve unlocking Heav'n's casket bright; Thence the burdened spirit borrows Strength to meet laborious morrows, Starry peace to soothe his sorrows, All through the night.