  Heart heavy, her mantle torn, and with bleeding feet; As from out some Dream b’yond wide-visioned Night, Unverged, unfollowed where her infinites meet, On brow, withal, an unextinguishable Light, Came crownless Glory, seeking of the haunts of man, To find him from her faith same swerver still, Who, tho’ suffered factor in this fabled Plan, Its wonder jars with shock of passion and the worldly will. From out those self-same Deeps, against whose Sight Yon white suns veil them, that o’ Times they are, Came also he, the Greed—his lust of Have and love of Might, To fame his flush, tho’ shrouded, nay, how brazen, Star. Full-orbed, if ever, thro’ yet feud of Days, Whose strides would bridge it, but contrive no span, Where, beneath, tides on forever, yea, in shrewder maze Time’s scruteless burden, since his own began; Whose Strange withal to lighten, ’less all hope were dumb, And, ere the Riddle wearied that no answer grew, What still some sad twinge told him must abide its sum, Yet, on some wild prospect that chance Glory knew, In this crude fashion sought to draw the Seraph out: “Why dost thou moan? Will Man ne’er know thee as thou really art? Mark how I am followed, how his bawdy rout, His brutish hordes, have throve and fatted at my feeling heart! “How I have led him from ’way down the Scale, While something better,—yes, I’ve dreamt ’twas you,— Devised those touches, made his red hand quail, Reproved the bully when most fierce he slew.” “Yet, look you, even when his best is told, Some bias granted where awards divide; Under the glass now—is he other than the beast of old, Have your pricks struck deeper than his spotty hide?” Is your varnish more than the rogue’s, whose saint For a fast or vigil wipes him, then gross-daubs him new? Ah! that I chance fouled him, helped flush the paint? Tut, tut, that still outfathoms, yea, or me, or you. Come, be wise! Subscribe me proper! Sleek my Spoiler’s hand, So its foul grip hallow, thought a blight before,— Avouch it mine that grace that haunts me while the Heavens stand, Since first my gray dawn dimmed it ’mong white lights of yore. Why should’st thou sorrow? Why those bleeding feet? Thy humble garment? Yon rapt, far-off gaze? The voice that falters thro’ its dim entreat? Thy brow, sore pondering of this thankless maze,— Thy brow, where lo!—ah, ’tis the riddle which I blind pursue— Yon fond star frets it and divides thy gloom: Hark! Wilt thou not lend it me? In guise of True, Let its rose be grafted on my baser bloom? Since, how then still goodlier might my outward show; My pose, my policy, each brood of shame, Which my wily statists at their game of draw— My foxy henchmen—give a smoother name; How still more potent were my toils than now,— When “Nay” spoke gently Glory, “that out-goes my leave: How might I stand me where the high Fates bow Before the Will, that crowns no issue not thine own achieve.” “What! Thou wilt not?” Came the fierce respond, As on deep Night there rose a mocking and a damned wail, “Mark how I justify my bitter bond, How where fools refuse me there I grim assail! When, forth, on its fell errand, went a grisly hand, As the dread skies shook them and the winds spoke hoarse, To grasp the star no wheedling parley, nor no harsh command, May impious sever from its bounden course. Nay, for one foul moment gripped it, made the Jewel press Those hairy temples where the gross thoughts strive To vie the light no false faith borrows, so its sheen may bless And cloak the trickster while his jugglings thrive; But like a shadow shall its wonder chill: So even here: it left more pinched the low brow there, Yet, as if sorry even for unrighteous will, Made still, for ruth, the base ridge wear, At upward blazon ’tward yon veiled Deeps, Where the lights ensky them past the zenith star, A blot—a bruise, whose fiery throb no opiate sleeps, A branding, brazen, yet a piteous scar; Which, in his better hour, he, the ogre, Greed, Applying to its sorry wound the comfort of the salve, Which ’gainst Time’s woe, for even him, the high Hopes breed, Allays that brutal sting—his love of Rule and lust of Have. But out, alas! When sad companion of the fated Night, Whence, struggling tho’ her bitter spur, his dark will came, He aims to conjure with yon gentler Light, To screen his knavish Cant, filch Glory’s name; When cloaked in practise, till the Heavens doubt, False hopes estrange him with his franker star; How vengeful then, how giant grim, stands fiery out Yon thievish, brazen, branding Scar! |
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