In the fair days when God | |
By man as godlike trod, | |
And each alike was Greek, alike was free, | |
God’s lightning spared, they said, | |
Alone the happier head | |
Whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for thee, | |
To whom the high gods gave of right | |
Their thunders and their laurels and their light. | |
Sunbeams and bays before | |
10 | Our master’s servants wore, |
For these Apollo left in all men’s lands; | |
But far from these ere now | |
And watched with jealous brow | |
Lay the blind lightnings shut between God’s hands, | |
And only loosed on slaves and kings | |
The terror of the tempest of their wings. | |
Born in those younger years | |
That shone with storms of spears | |
And shook in the wind blown from a dead world’s pyre, | |
20 | When by her back-blown hair |
Napoleon caught the fair | |
And fierce Republic with her feet of fire, | |
And stayed with iron words and hands | |
Her flight, and freedom in a thousand lands: | |
Thou sawest the tides of things | |
Close over heads of kings, | |
And thine hand felt the thunder, and to thee | |
Laurels and lightnings were | |
As sunbeams and soft air | |
30 | Mixed each in other, or as mist with sea |
Mixed, or as memory with desire, | |
Or the lute’s pulses with the louder lyre. | |
For thee man’s spirit stood | |
Disrobed of flesh and blood, | |
And bare the heart of the most secret hours; | |
And to thine hand more tame | |
Than birds in winter came | |
High hopes and unknown flying forms of powers, | |
And from thy table fed, and sang | |
40 | Till with the tune men’s ears took fire and rang. |
Even all men’s eyes and ears | |
With fiery sound and tears | |
Waxed hot, and cheeks caught flame and eyelid light, | |
At those high songs of thine | |
That stung the sense like wine, | |
Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night, | |
Or wailed as in some flooded cave | |
Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave. | |
But we, our master, we | |
50 | Whose hearts uplift to thee, |
Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song, | |
We ask not nor await | |
From the clenched hands of fate, | |
As thou, remission of the world’s old wrong; | |
Respite we ask not, nor release; | |
Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace. | |
Though thy most fiery hope | |
Storm heaven, to set wide ope | |
The all-sought-for gate whence God or Chance debars | |
60 | All feet of men, all eyes – |
The old night resumes her skies, | |
Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars, | |
Where nought save these is sure in sight; | |
And, paven with death, our days are roofed with night. | |
One thing we can; to be | |
Awhile, as men may, free; | |
But not by hope or pleasure the most stern | |
Goddess, most awful-eyed, | |
Sits, but on either side | |
70 | Sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn, |
Sad faith that cannot hope or fear, | |
And memory grey with many a flowerless year. | |
Not that in stranger’s wise | |
I lift not loving eyes | |
To the fair foster-mother France, that gave | |
Beyond the pale fleet foam | |
Help to my sires and home, | |
Whose great, sweet breast could shelter those and save | |
Whom from her nursing breasts and hands | |
80 | Their land cast forth of old on gentler lands. |
Not without thoughts that ache | |
For theirs and for thy sake, | |
I, born of exiles, hail thy banished head; | |
I whose young song took flight | |
Toward the great heat and light | |
On me a child from thy far splendour shed, | |
From thine high place of soul and song, | |
Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong. | |
Ah, not with lessening love | |
90 | For memories born hereof, |
I look to that sweet mother-land, and see | |
The old fields and fair full streams, | |
And skies, but fled like dreams | |
The feet of freedom and the thought of thee; | |
And all between the skies and graves | |
The mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves. | |
She, killed with noisome air, | |
Even she! and still so fair, | |
Who said ‘Let there be freedom,’ and there was | |
100 | Freedom; and as a lance |
The fiery eyes of France | |
Touched the world’s sleep and as a sleep made pass | |
Forth of men’s heavier ears and eyes | |
Smitten with fire and thunder from new skies. | |
Are they men’s friends indeed | |
Who watch them weep and bleed? | |
Because thou hast loved us, shall the gods love thee? | |
Thou, first of men and friend, | |
Seest thou, even thou, the end? | |
110 | Thou knowest what hath been, knowest thou what shall be? |
Evils may pass and hopes endure; | |
But fate is dim, and all the gods obscure. | |
O nursed in airs apart, | |
O poet highest of heart, | |
Hast thou seen time, who hast seen so many things? | |
Are not the years more wise, | |
More sad than keenest eyes, | |
The years with soundless feet and sounding wings? | |
Passing we hear them not, but past | |
120 | The clamour of them thrills us, and their blast. |
Thou art chief of us, and lord; | |
Thy song is as a sword | |
Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers; | |
Thou art lord and king; but we | |
Lift younger eyes, and see | |
Less of high hope, less light on wandering hours; | |
Hours that have borne men down so long, | |
Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong. | |
But thine imperial soul, | |
130 | As years and ruins roll |
To the same end, and all things and all dreams | |
With the same wreck and roar | |
Drift on the dim same shore, | |
Still in the bitter foam and brackish streams | |
Tracks the fresh water-spring to be | |
And sudden sweeter fountains in the sea. | |
As once the high God bound | |
With many a rivet round | |
Man’s saviour, and with iron nailed him through, | |
140 | At the wild end of things, |
Where even his own bird’s wings | |
Flagged, whence the sea shone like a drop of dew, | |
From Caucasus beheld below | |
Past fathoms of unfathomable snow; | |
So the strong God, the chance | |
Central of circumstance, | |
Still shows him exile who will not be slave; | |
All thy great fame and thee | |
Girt by the dim strait sea | |
150 | With multitudinous walls of wandering wave; |
Shows us our greatest from his throne | |
Fate-stricken, and rejected of his own. | |
Yea, he is strong, thou say’st, | |
A mystery many-faced, | |
The wild beasts know him and the wild birds flee; | |
The blind night sees him, death | |
Shrinks beaten at his breath, | |
And his right hand is heavy on the sea: | |
We know he hath made us, and is king; | |
160 | We know not if he care for anything. |
Thus much, no more, we know; | |
He bade what is be so, | |
Bade light be and bade night be, one by one; | |
Bade hope and fear, bade ill | |
And good redeem and kill, | |
Till all men be aweary of the sun | |
And his world burn in its own flame | |
And bear no witness longer of his name. | |
Yet though all this be thus, | |
170 | Be those men praised of us |
Who have loved and wrought and sorrowed and not sinned | |
For fame or fear or gold, | |
Nor waxed for winter cold, | |
Nor changed for changes of the worldly wind; | |
Praised above men of men be these, | |
Till this one world and work we know shall cease. | |
Yea, one thing more than this, | |
We know that one thing is, | |
The splendour of a spirit without blame, | |
180 | That not the labouring years |
Blind-born, nor any fears, | |
Nor men nor any gods can tire or tame; | |
But purer power with fiery breath | |
Fills, and exalts above the gulfs of death. | |
Praised above men be thou, | |
Whose laurel-laden brow, | |
Made for the morning, droops not in the night; | |
Praised and beloved, that none | |
Of all thy great things done | |
190 | Flies higher than thy most equal spirit’s flight; |
Praised, that nor doubt nor hope could bend | |
Earth’s loftiest head, found upright to the end. |