Part 2

O sweet Lord Spring, I am free at last To follow wherever thy feet have passed, Over the dales and over the rills To the gladsome Grecian hills!

A VISION OF MAN

The proud free glance, the thinker’s mighty brow, The curling locks and supple, slender limbs, The eye that speaks dominion, victor’s smile-- All these I know. By them I hail thee Man, Lord of the earth. Thou art the woman’s slave, And yet her master....

I know thee when about thy sunburnt thighs Thou swing’st the tawny skin a tiger wore Till thy rude weapon dashed him to the ground. I know thee also when thy shoulders bear The purple mantle of an emperor, Stained with the blood of thousand tiny lives; The golden sandals clasped upon thy feet; Thy hair made rich with spikenard, and thy brow Graced with the gifts that mutual east and west Conspire to offer to their sovereign lord.

I know thee too in lust’s relentless rage, Dragging the chosen woman to thy lair, To frame upon her body at thy will Sons in thine image, strong of loin as thou: And when, the bearer of thy father’s sins, Within the portals of the House of Shame Monstrous delight thy passion seeks to find In futile quest, and Nature pitiful Will not transmit unto the future’s womb Thy weakened generation....

Image of God I know thee--God thyself. Walking the world on India’s sun-parched plains Thy name was Rama; thou in desert sands Of Araby didst dream thy wondrous dream; The cradles of all races thou hast seen-- Thou Zarathustra--thou the Son of Man! I know the wounds of hands and feet and side.... Ah, and I know the ring about thy neck Of ruddy curls! Say, Judas, in thine ear Make they sweet music still, the silver coins, As on the day the temple’s veil was rent?

So, in the far-stretched background of all time I watch thy progress through the sounding years-- Wielding the sceptre here, and there the lyre, The lord or servant of thy master-passion, Pure or polluted, fool or nobly wise. And this it is that justifies the whole, This is thy greatness: thou hast stumbled oft, And straying often fallen. Yet all the while, Wandering the stony wilderness of life, Thine eyes were fixed upon the steadfast star That far-off stands above the Promised Land. Rough is the road, beset by mocking heavens And false illusory hells--the strong, the weak Alike by dancing fires are led astray, And poisoned flowers bloom rankly on the path. Self in the guise of selfishness approached, Frailty in garment of a god benign; Pleasure with lying accents “I am sin” Proclaimed, and vice, “I am bold action” cried; “I am contentment,” spoke the belly full, And the applause of groundlings, “I am fame.”

And so it came that only here and there In all the years a strong, unerring one Plucked boldly at the flowers of brief delight, Yet by the dust of tumult unconfused Pressed on to reach the goal; the strong man’s goal: To rule and to enjoy, to hold command Over both’ things and spirits, to enjoy All pleasant sounds and all sweet gifts, yet strive Untiring, ever upward to that sun Which no world-master’s blind despotic will, But his own hand, with more than Titan strength, Unto the utmost firmament has flung.

INHIBITION

_To My Parents_

O for the blithesomeness of birds Whose soul floods ever to their tongue! But to be impotent of words With blinding tears and heart unstrung!

Each breeze that blows from homeward brings To me who am so far away The memory of tender things I might have said and did not say.

Like spirit children, wraiths unborn To luckless lovers long ago, Shades of emotion, mute, forlorn, Within my brain stalk to and fro.

When to my lips they rush, and call, A nameless something rears its head, Forbidding, like the spectral wall Between the living and the dead.

O guardian of the nether mind Where atavistic terrors reel In dark cerebral chambers bind Old nightmares with thy mystic seal!

But bar not from the sonant gate Of being with thy fiery sword The sweetest thing we wring from fate: Love’s one imperishable word!

THE PROTOZOAN

(_A Chant of Immortality_)

No torches light the tragic night In which I grope, Friend have I none under the sun, Nor hope.

Heedless I press past deeds that bless And deeds that damn. For I know this, that while Life is, I am.

Beholding me, the Fateful Three Ironies chortle. Creeds are a sham. Gods die. I am Immortal.

The pristine cell wherein I dwell Outlasts the stars, Renewing life ’spite cosmic strife And scars.

Through pain and fear I persevere Upreared from sod And primal slime, to challenge Time And God.

THE PLAINT OF EVE

“Man’s mate was I in Paradise, Since of the fruit we twain did eat, Through the slow toiling days his slave. Because I asked for truth, God gave All the world’s anguish and the grave. But, being merciful and wise, Ha bade His angel bathe mine eyes With the salt dew of sorrow. Sweet Had been the dew of Paradise.”

_Yet through the immemorial years, Has she not healed us with her tears?_

“Albeit upon my lips I wore A smile, my heart was ever sore. Because I heard the Serpent hiss, Therefore I suffered patiently. But now I pray for bread, and ye Gave me a stone or worse--a kiss.”

_Shall not the stone rebound on us? Shall not the kiss prove venomous?_

“No expiation dearly won, Can turn the ancient loss to gain, The Son of Man was Mary’s Son... Have I not borne the child in pain? My sighs were mingled with His breaths! Yet, though I died a thousand deaths, A thousand times a thousandfold, With Him, my babe, upon the Cross, My bloody sweats are never told, And still the world’s gain is my loss.”

_Has she not suffered, has not died, With every creature crucified?_

“The hallowed light of Mary’s eyes Within my bosom never dies. The learned Faust, for all his pride, Was saved by Gretchen--glorified-- To God, his master, thrice denied. Love’s smallest holy offices When have I shirked them, even these? From the grey dawn when time began To the Crimean battle-field. By every wounded soldier’s side With cool and soothing hands I kneeled.”

_She is the good Samaritan Upon life’s every battle-field._

“The secret book of Beauty was Unlocked through me to Phidias. Petrarcha’s dream and Raphael’s, Rossetti’s blessèd damozels, And all men’s visions live in me. The shadow queens of Maeterlinck, Clothed with my soft flesh, cross the brink Of utter unreality. Rautendelein and Juliet, Who shall their wistful smile forget? The leader of my boyish band I rule in Neverneverland.”

_Her’s is the sweetest voice in France, And hers the sob that like a lance Has pierced the heart of Italy._

“With stylus, brush and angelot, I seize life’s pulses, fierce and hot. In Greece, a suzerain of song, The swallow was my singing mate, My lyric sisters still prolong My strain more strange than sea or fate. Though Shakespeare’s sonnets, sweet as wine, Were not more ‘sugared’ than were mine, Ye who with myrtle crown my brow, Withhold the laurel even now.”

_The world’s intolerable scorn Still falls to every woman born._

“Strong to inspire, strong to please, My love was unto Pericles; The Corsican, the demigod Whose feet upon the nations trod, Shrunk from my wit as from a rod. The number and its secret train Eluded not my restless brain. Beyond the ken of man I saw, With Colon’s eyes, America. Into the heart of mystery, Of light and earth I plunged, to me The atom bared its perfect plot.”

_What gifts have we, that she has not?_

“Was I not lord of life and death In Egypt and in Nineveh? Clothed with Saint Stephen’s majesty My arm dealt justice mightily. Men that beheld me caught their breath With awe. I was Elizabeth. I was the Maid of God. Mine was The sway of all the Russias. What was my guerdon, mine to take? A crown of slander, and the stake!”

_How shall we comfort her, how ease The pain of thousand centuries?_

“Back from my aspiration hurled, I was the harlot of the world. The levelled walls of Troy confess My devastating loveliness. Upon my bosom burns the scar Eternal as the sexes are. I was Prince Borgia’s concubine, Phryne I was, and Messaline, And Circe, who turned men to swine.”

_But shall they be forgotten, then, Whom she has turned from swine to men?_

“New creeds unto the world I gave, But my own self I could not save. For all mankind one Christ has sighed Upon the Cross, but hourly Is every woman crucified! The iron stake of destiny Is plunged into my living side. To Him that died upon the Tree Love held out trembling hands to lend Its reverential ministry, And then came Death, the kindest friend-- Shall my long road to Calvary, And man’s injustice, have no end?”

_O sons of mothers, shall the pain Of all child-bearing be in vain? Shall we drive nails, to wound her thus, Into the hands that fondled us?_

THE CONQUEROR

_“I, John Pierpont Morgan, ... commit my soul into the hands of my Savior, in full confidence that having redeemed and washed it in His most precious blood He will present it faultless before the throne of my Heavenly Father.”_

--_The Last Will and Testament of John Pierpont Morgan._

When all was silent and the gloom Grew thick, the dead man rose. The mask Slipped. Loath to tarry in the room, He glanced not at the agate casque;

Nor at his tapestries, his scrolls, The ransom of an hundred kings-- For he that conquers life, his soul’s Wraith is not chained to mundane things.

His cane with slow, deliberate care Swinging, along the street moved he, Until he reached the Golden Stair That only dead men’s eyes may see.

Of newly dead a spirit host Made low obeisance when he came. Though some be saved and some be lost, He was the Master of the Game In life and death. A grunt, a nod, Thanked them. They nudged each other’s sides For each was fettered to the sod By some earth memory. A bride’s

Caress. A lad’s clean limbs. The sheen In a child’s face. A battle won. A crime. A dream. What might have been. --August, untroubled he passed on.

He puffed at his cigar. The spheres Made music. Then the ceaseless drone Of prayer went up. By myriad tiers Encircled rose the Holy Throne.

With no uncertainty of fate He brushed aside the angel throng And strode through the emblazoned gate Into the Heaven of the Strong.

THE WINNERS

_To my Wife, Margaret Edith Viereck._

Never on the winning side, Always on the right-- Vanquished, this shall be our pride In the world’s despite.

Let the oily Pharisees Purse their lips and rant, Calm we face the Destinies: Better “can’t” than Cant.

Bravely drain, then fling away, Break the cup of sorrow! Courage! He who lost the day May have won the morrow.

JESUS IN NEW ENGLAND

He saw the drab and dreary town Upon the mirthless Sabbath day; All pleasant things had crept away Like serfs before the master’s frown; The very trees their heads hung down Upon the mirthless Sabbath day.

Through joy-deserted streets He trod, The church bells tolling mournfully. There was no sound of childish glee, No peal of laughter praising God Hailed Him that loved the little ones From Judah unto Galilee.

Barred in His name the magic bower Of mimic kings and queens that seem, Where still the fairy-jewels gleam, And sonant for a little hour-- From faded parchment conjured up Incarnate walks the poet’s dream.

But through a gate obscure and small He watched a pale-faced stripling crawl Into a closely-shuttered place Where Magdalens untouched of grace Held their unlovely festival, Wearing the hunted look, uncanny, Of them that love not much but many.

And right across the house of guilt Where sweet young lips were made all-wise In unchaste knowledge, and the wine Of glorious youth was hourly spilt-- Grinning upon Him like a skull, With windows bare like sightless eyes, There rose the House Unbeautiful Wherein God’s holy shrine was built.

And buzzing like a swarm of bees Around the church’s open door, In long frock coats and tall silk hats, The sleek, the oily Pharisees With the complacent smile of yore-- Dear God, how He remembered these!

Upon a cross of ebony He saw His image painted bleak With pallid lips that seemed to speak; “My God, thou hast forsaken me!” Such was the symbol of their faith-- Not like a godhead, like a wraith Convulsed with futile agony, Wherefrom no man might solace seek.

There was no incense in the air, Never a sweet-faced acolyte, No priest in sacrificial dress Trailing with colors strange and bright; No organ sounded pæans there, No candelabrum shed its light. No gleam of hope ... of loveliness, Of awe ... or beauty anywhere.

Beside the tabernacle stood, Choked with things hateful that destroy, A weazened person cursing Joy; And in his veins there flowed no blood. Upon his tongue were words of grace, Yet every time he spake afresh He drove a nail into His flesh, And praying ... spat into His face!

And, while his curses poured like showers Upon all things that men hold fair: The pearls, the satin and the flowers, Life’s graces, perfumed, debonair, With voice of thunder spake the Master: “_Hold, parson! Cease thy blasphemy!_” “Who art thou, stranger?”

“_I am He Who suffered her of Magdala With the smooth satin of her hair To dry His consecrated feet, And break for Him the alabaster That held the spikenard rare and sweet._”

The weazened parson deaf and blind Proceeded of God’s wrath to tell, And of a lad, of one who fell Through his hot blood and fates unkind, Whom to the terrors of God’s Hell And to His vengeance he consigned. Again the voice rose threateningly: “_Hold, parson! Cease thy blasphemy!_” “Who art thou, stranger?”

“_I am He Who in the wilderness forsaken, Plucked from His flesh temptation’s spur, Forgave one in adultery taken And bade ye throw no stone at her!_”

And still the parson cursed and whined, And thus he spoke to womankind: “Vileness and sin of every shape Lure in the ferment of the grape. Seize by the root the fruit malign That turns all good men into swine!” “_Impious parson, on thy knee! How dare ye judge your Maker? He Am I who at His mother’s sign, And for her glory, turned the water In the six water-pots to wine!_

“_I am who through the bigot pride Of righteous fools is crucified. All lovely things, if these be slain, Then were My sacrifice in vain! For man is not the devil’s booty, Not mine the scorpion and the rod, Not sorrow is your heavy duty, And they that worship Him in beauty And gladness ... are most dear to God._

“_Men of the New World, heed Me, bliss And all God’s good gifts are your gain! From Old World nightmares cleanse your brain: Columbus has not cross the main To open up new worlds to pain! But he and they who tell you this, Good folk, betray you with a prayer As they betrayed Me with a kiss!_”

And like mysterious music died His accents on the shivering air; And through the heavens opening wide He vanished where no man might follow. Roses for thorns were in His hair, And on His visage, dwelling there, Those who beheld Him saw, enticed, The awful beauty of Apollo, The loving kindness which is Christ. But choked with visions that destroy, Still by the cross the parson stood, A gibbering madman cursing Joy!...

THE BALLAD OF THE GOLDEN BOY

Da Vinci’s brow in curious lines Of contemplation deep was knit. Fair dreams before his eyes alit Like water when the moonlight shines, Or amber bees that come and flit: How to make rare and exquisite A pageant for the Florentines.

He beckoned to his page, a lad Whose lips were like two crimson spots, Eyes had he like forget-me-nots. Yet all his boyhood sweet and glad In frock of homely-spun was clad.

And of his multi-colored whims The strangest thus the master told: “Child, I shall crown thy head with gold, And stain with gold thy lovely limbs. For once in this sad age uncouth The bloom of boyhood and of youth Shall be with splendour aureoled.”

The boy’s heart leaped in one great bound. “Thy gracious will,” said he, “be done!” And ere the lad was disengowned The eager painter had begun To clothe his hair with glory round And make his visage like the sun.

Then, seven stars upon his breast, And in his hands a floral horn, Like a young king or like a guest From heaven, riding on the morn, Splendid and nude, the boy was borne In triumph on the pageant’s crest.

Like the sea surging on the beach, Reverberant murmurs rise to greet The masqueraders on the street. But what is this? A learned leech Hatless, dishevelled, runs to meet The train. White terror halts his speech.

“Poor lad, my lad, for Heaven’s pity,” Shakes on the air a father’s cry, “Strip from thy flesh this gilded lie, Else, for the pleasure of the city, A self-slain Midas, thou must die!”

And terror smote the revelry. The master’s features white and sad Twitched, yet no single word spake he, But full and straight rose up the lad, Upon his lips curled wistfully The smile that Mona Lisa had.

“Good Sir,” said he, “what mortal power In all the dark-winged years and fleet, Could me, a lowly lad, endower With any boon more great, more sweet, Than to have felt one epic hour A city’s homage at my feet?

“By the slow tooth of time uneaten, And all the foul things that destroy, From Life’s mad game I rise unbeaten, Drenched with the wine of youth and joy, Great Leonardo’s Golden Boy.

“Let this be told in song and story, Until the eyes of the world grow dim, Till the sun’s rays are wan, and hoary The ringlets of the cherubim, That in my boyhood’s glow and glory I died for Florence and for him.

“And when the damp and dreary mould Full soon my little limbs shall hold, Let Leonardo’s finger write Upon my grave, in letters bold: ‘_His life was as a splash of gold Against the plumage of the night._’”

Thus spake the lad; and onward rolled The world’s great pageant fierce and bright.

THE MAGIC CITY

Who knows where Babylon’s forgotten kings Now keep their state? Laid to their rest ’neath purple coverings, They meet the common fate.

No traces that abide Of all the Christs who bled upon the Cross Ere Jesus died, And by the Ganges sought the gain of loss: Behold their priestly mantle’s dye Has faded, and their day gone by.

The witching girls with eyes so crystal-clear And honeyed tresses bright, Full many a fool’s delight And his heart’s all: These with the snows of yester-year Not Villon’s cry shall wake to light-- Asleep beyond recall.

The tables of the law are broken; The flocks are feeding on the grass that grows About each sculptured token Of ancient empire, and the wild wind blows Yet, though the spell of death and ruin lord The earth, above all mortal woes

Deathless triumphant sounds the poet’s word, Clothed with thought’s flame, and through the storm-fraught night, Blazes like a mighty sword Leaping to the fight.

Through the clang of battle, and the crash Of worlds that to destruction fall, Song rings out like silver trumpets’ call, Or, heard through all, Harmonious still, great chords consenting clash.

Never is melody silent on earth; Faint, far-away, but forever rings the sound of its mirth, Not even the sun is eternal, but immortal, O Homer, thy birth! And still the listening years Repeat her lyric name, Who wove song’s deathless garland from her tears And from her shame.

And raised by music’s might --High walls in battlemented line-- A magic city dawns before my sight: Golden temples rear their haughty heads on high. Domes like new suns blazing seem to span the sky.

I enter in, and straying stand at length Amazed before a vast cathedral’s door. Immense it rises there, in conscious strength That many a tempest bore. On the threshold swift I pause: Sound of ghostly footsteps awes My eager feet that would an entrance win, Bids me kneel and murmur low Prayers of reverence, as I know What holy thoughts, what wisdom dwell therein.

This is the home of high Teutonic speech Where beauty’s sacred fire forever glows. Upon the Edda’s broad foundation rose The soaring columns vaulted each to each, And Goethe, Shakespeare, Ibsen reach Their spans cross the hall: And over all A dome that holds the light, The Master-Man, whose message mystical Bade us be bold and laugh and seize delight, Before he vanished into endless night At Zarathustra’s call!

Of song is made the painted windows’ sheen, The lustre of the lamps, The tapestries shot with gold: On each his own design some singer stamps, The very stones have voices, that proclaim The Magic City and uphold Her deathless fame.

The Holy of Holies is this place: Some hanging that the wall may grace To weave with care, Or with the smoking censer pace, Or do least service in that blessed throng, Is to claim kinship with God’s saints and wear The martyr’s crown of song.

THE CHALLENGE

“I challenge you!” you said to me. The curtain parts. You enter in. A dream of pink and ivory Through the soft satin peeps your skin

Before me, in defiance bold, Now all your little being stands. Your breasts like two small birds I hold-- I feel their heart-beats with my hands

But in your eyes there is no dread: A little animal at play You cuddle up within my bed, And simply will not go away.

Perhaps some sober Puritan Would take your tender ways amiss, I am not marble, but a man-- Worlds have been bartered for a kiss.

And though but now your hand and eye Upon forbidden ways have strayed, Against the damask sheet you lie More like a flower than a maid.

How white are you, how brown am I, My lily girl! My midnight rose! How delicate against my thigh Is the indenture of your toes.

No after-savors mar your lips With memories of past delight, Save phantom lads who come on ships Of dreams to little girls at night.

A thornless rose of memory Shall be this strange night’s white caress. My love with you deals tenderly, And life, I pray will do no less.

“Is this not love’s way, even so?” You ask and smile triumphantly, And know not that still home you go With all your young virginity.

Scat, little kitten, nor delay, While there, as yet, is naught to rue. The city swarms with beasts of prey Who lie in wait for such as you.

Avaunt, incredible gamin! You have no right at all to be, Save in the sculptures of Rodin, Or else--in Greek mythology.

THE PILGRIM