Poems : patriotic, religious, miscellaneous / by Abram J. Ryan [electronic text]

FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM.

A MYSTERY.

His face was sad; some shadow must have hung Above his soul; its folds, now falling dark, Now almost bright; but dark or not so dark, Like cloud upon a mount, 'twas always there — A shadow; and his face was always sad.

His eyes were changeful; for the gloom of gray Within them met and blended with the blue, And when they gazed they seemed almost to dream; They looked beyond you into far-away, And often drooped; his face was always sad.

His eyes were deep; I often saw them dim, As if the edges of a cloud of tears Had gathered there, and only left a mist That made them moist and kept them ever moist. He never wept; his face was always sad.

I mean, not many saw him ever weep, And yet he seemed as one who often wept, Or always, tears that were too proud to flow In outer streams, but shrunk within and froze — Froze down into himself; his face was sad.

And yet sometimes he smiled — a sudden smile, As if some far-gone joy came back again, Surprised his heart, and flashed across his face A moment like a light through rifts in clouds, Which falls upon an unforgotten grave; He rarely laughed; his face was ever sad.

And when he spoke his words were sad as wails, And strange as stories of an unknown land, And full of meanings as the sea of moans. At times he was so still that silence seemed To sentinel his lips; and not a word Would leave his heart; his face was strangely sad.

But then at times his speech flowed like a stream — A deep and dreamy stream through lonely dells Of lofty mountain-thoughts, and o'er its waves Hung mysteries of gloom; and in its flow It rippled on lone shores fair-fringed with flowers, And deepened as it flowed; his face was sad.

He had his moods of silence and of speech. I asked him once the reason, and he said: "When I speak much, my words are only words, When I speak least, my words are more than words, When I speak not, I then reveal myself!" It was his way of saying things — he spoke In quaintest riddles; and his face was sad.

And, when he wished, he wove around his words A nameless spell that marvelously thrilled The dullest ear. 'Twas strange that he so cold Could warm the coldest heart; that he so hard Could soften hardest soul; that he so still Could rouse the stillest mind: his face was sad.

He spoke of death as if it were a toy For thought to play with; and of life he spoke As of a toy not worth the play of thought;

And of this world he spoke as captives speak Of prisons where they pine; he spoke of men As one who found pure gold in each of them. He spake of women just as if he dreamed About his mother; and he spoke of God As if he walked with Him and knew His heart — But he was weary, and his face was sad.

He had a weary way in all he did, As if he dragged a chain, or bore a cross; And yet the weary went to him for rest. His heart seemed scarce to know an earthly joy, And yet the joyless were rejoiced by him. He seemed to have two selves — his outer self Was free to any passer-by, and kind to all, And gentle as a child's; that outer self Kept open all its gates, that who so wished Might enter them and find therein a place; And many entered; but his face was sad.

The inner self he guarded from approach, He kept it sealed and sacred as a shrine; He guarded it with silence and reserve; Its gates were locked and watched, and none might pass Beyond the portals; and his face was sad.

But whoso entered there — and few were they — So very few — so very, very few, They never did forget; they said: "How strange!" They murmured still: "How strange! how strangely strange!" They went their ways, but wore a lifted look, And higher meanings came to common words, And lowly thoughts took on the grandest tones; And, near or far, they never did forget The "Shadow and the Shrine;" his face was sad.

He was not young nor old — yet he was both; Nor both by turns, but always both at once; For youth and age commingled in his ways, His words, his feelings, and his thoughts and acts. At times the "old man" tottered in his thoughts, The child played thro' his words; his face was sad.

I one day asked his age; he smiled and said: "The rose that sleeps upon yon valley's breast, Just born to-day, is not as young as I; The moss-robed oak of twice a thousand storms — An acorn cradled ages long ago — Is old, in sooth, but not as old as I." It was his way — he always answered thus, But when he did his face was very sad.

SPIRIT SONG.

Thou wert once the purest wave Where the tempests roar; Thou art now a golden wave On the golden shore — Ever — ever — evermore!

Thou wert once the bluest wave Shadows e'er hung o'er; Thou art now the brightest wave On the brightest shore — Ever — ever — evermore!

Thou wert once the gentlest wave Ocean ever bore; Thou art now the fairest wave On the fairest shore — Ever — ever — evermore!

Whiter foam than thine, oh! wave, Wavelet never wore, Stainless wave; and now you lave The far and stormless shore — Ever — ever — evermore!

Who bade thee go, oh! bluest wave, Beyond the tempest's roar? Who bade thee flow, oh! fairest wave, Unto the golden shore, Ever — ever — evermore?

Who waved a hand, oh! purest wave? A hand that blessings bore, And wafted thee, oh! whitest wave, Unto the fairest shore, Ever — ever — evermore?

Who winged thy way, oh! holy wave, In days and days of yore? And wept the words: "Oh! winsome wave, This earth is not thy shore!" Ever — ever — evermore?

Who gave thee strength, O snowy wave — The strength a great soul wore — And said: "Float up to God! my wave, His heart shall be thy shore!" Ever — ever — evermore?

Who said to thee, oh! poor, weak wave, "Thy wail shall soon be o'er, Float on to God, and leave me, wave, Upon this rugged shore!" Ever — ever — evermore?

And thou hast reached His feet! Glad wave, Dost dream of days of yore? Dost yearn that we shall meet, pure wave, Upon the golden shore, Ever — ever — evermore?

Thou sleepest in the calm, calm wave, Beyond the wild storm's roar! I watch amid the storm, bright wave, Like rock upon the shore; Ever — ever — evermore!

Sing at the feet of God, white wave, Song sweet as one of yore! I would not bring thee back, heart wave, To break upon this shore, Ever — ever — evermore!

******

"No, no," he gently spoke: "You know me not; My mind is like a temple, dim, vast, lone; Just like a temple when the priest has gone, And all the hymns that rolled along the vaults Are buried deep in silence; when the lights That flashed on altars died away in dark, And when the flowers, with all their perfumed breath And beauteous bloom, lie withered on the shrine. My mind is like a temple, solemn, still, Untenanted save by the ghosts of gloom Which seem to linger in the holy place — The shadows of the sinners who passed there, And wept, and spirit-shriven left upon The marble floor memorials of their tears."

And while he spake, his words sank low and low, Until they hid themselves in some still depth He would not open; and his face was sad.

When he spoke thus, his very gentleness Passed slowly from him, and his look, so mild Grew marble cold; a pallor as of death Whitened his lips, and clouds rose to his eyes, Dry, rainless clouds, where lightnings seemed to sleep.

His words, as tender as a rose's smile, Slow-hardened into thorns, but seemed to sting Himself the most; his brow, at such times, bent Most lowly down, and wore such look of pain As though it bore an unseen crown of thorns. Who knows? perhaps it did!

But he would pass His hand upon his brow, or touch his eyes, And then the olden gentleness, like light Which seems transfigured by the touch of dark, Would tremble on his face, and he would look More gentle then than ever, and his tone Would sweeten, like the winds when storms have passed.

I saw him, one day, thus most deeply moved And darkened; ah! his face was like a tomb That hid the dust of dead and buried smiles, But, suddenly, his face flashed like a throne, And all the smiles arose as from the dead, And wore the glory of an Easter morn; And passed beneath the sceptre of a hope Which came from some far region of his heart, Came up into his eyes, and reigned a queen. I marveled much; he answered to my look With all his own, and wafted me these words:

"There are transitions in the lives of all. There are transcendent moments when we stand In Thabor's glory with the chosen three, And weak with very strength of human love We fain would build our tabernacles there; And, Peter-like, for very human joy We cry aloud: ''Tis good that we are here;' Swift are these moments, like the smile of God, Which glorifies a shadow and is gone.

"And then we stand upon another mount — Dark, rugged Calvary; and God keeps us there For awful hours, to make us there His own In Crucifixion's tortures; 'tis His way. We wish to cling to Thabor; He says: 'No.' And what He says is best because most true. We fain would fly from Calvary; He says: 'No.' And it is true because it is the best. And yet, my friend, these two mounts are the same.

"They lie apart, distinct and separate, And yet — strange mystery! — they are the same. For Calvary is a Thabor in the dark, And Thabor is a Calvary in the light. It is the mystery of Holy Christ!

It is the mystery of you and me! Earth's shadows move, as moves far-heaven's sun, And, like the shadows of a dial, we Tell, darkly, in the vale the very hours The sun tells brightly in the sinless skies. Dost understand?" I did not understand — Or only half; his face was very sad. "Dost thou not understand me? Then your life Is shallow as a brook that brawls along Between two narrow shores; you never wept — You never wore great clouds upon your brow As mountains wear them; and you never wore Strange glories in your eyes, as sunset skies Oft wear them; and your lips — they never sighed Grand sighs which bear the weight of all the soul, You never reached your arms a-broad — a-high — To grasp far-worlds, or to enclasp the sky. Life, only life, can understand a life; Depth, only depth, can understand the deep. The dewdrop glist'ning on the lily's face Can never learn the story of the sea."

******

One day we strolled together to the sea. Gray evening and the night had almost met,

We walked between them, silent, to the shore. The feet of weird-faced waves ran up the beach Like children in mad play, then back again As if the spirit of the land pursued; Then up again — and farther — and they flung White, foamy arms around each other's neck; Then back again with sudden rush and shout, As if the sea, their mother, called them home; Then leaned upon her breast, as if so tired, But swiftly tore themselves away and rushed Away, and further up the beach, and fell For utter weariness; and loudly sobbed For strength to rise and flow back to the deep. But all in vain, for other waves swept on And trampled them; the sea cried out in grief, The gray beach laughed and clasped them to the sands. It was the flood-tide and the even-tide — Between the evening and the night we walked — We walked between the billows and the beach, We walked between the future and the past, Down to the sea we twain had strolled — to part.

The shore was low, with just the faintest rise Of many-colored sands and shreds of shells, Until about a stone's far throw they met

A fringe of faded grass, with here and there A pale-green shrub; and farther into land — Another stone's throw farther — there were trees — Tall, dark, wild trees, with entertwining arms, Each almost touching each, as if they feared To stand alone and look upon the sea. The night was in the trees — the evening on the shore. We walked between the evening and the night — Between the trees and tide we silent strolled. There lies between man's silence and his speech A shadowy valley, where thro' those who pass Are never silent, tho' they may not speak; And yet they more than breathe. It is the vale Of wordless sighs, half uttered and half-heard. It is the vale of the unutterable. We walked between our silence and our speech, And sighed between the sunset and the stars, One hour beside the sea.

There was a cloud Far o'er the reach of waters, hanging low 'Tween sea and sky — the banner of the storm. Its edges faintly bright, as if the rays That fled far down the West had rested there And slumbered, and had left a dream of light.

Its inner folds were dark — its central, more. It did not flutter; there it hung, as calm As banner in a temple o'er a shrine. Its shadow only fell upon the sea, Above the shore the heavens bended blue. We walked between the cloudless and the cloud, That hour, beside the sea.

But, quick as thought, There gleamed a sword of wild, terrific light — Its hilt in heaven, its point hissed in the sea, Its scabbard in the darkness — and it tore The bannered cloud into a thousand shreds, Then quivered far away, and bent and broke In flashing fragments;

And there came a peal That shook the mighty sea from shore to shore, But did not stir a sand-grain on the beach; Then silence fell, and where the low cloud hung Clouds darker gathered — and they proudly waved Like flags before a battle.

We twain walked — We walked between the lightning's parted gleams, We walked between the thunders of the skies,

We walked between the wavings of the clouds, We walked between the tremblings of the sea, We walked between the stillnesses and roars Of frightened billows; and we walked between The coming tempest and the dying calm — Between the tranquil and the terrible — That hour beside the sea.

There was a rock Far up the winding beach that jutted in The sea, and broke the heart of every wave That struck its breast; not steep enough nor high To be a cliff, nor yet sufficient rough To be a crag; a simple, low, lone rock; Yet not so low as that its brow was laved By highest tide, yet not sufficient high To rise beyond the reach of silver spray That rained up from the waves — their tears that fell Upon its face, when they died at its feet. Around its sides damp seaweed hung in long, Sad tresses, dripping down into the sea. A tuft or two of grass did green the rock, A patch or so of moss; the rest was bare.

Adown the shore we walked 'tween eve and night; But when we reached the rock the eve and night

Had met; light died; we sat down in the dark Upon the rock.

Meantime a thousand clouds Careered and clashed in air — a thousand waves Whirled wildly on in wrath — a thousand winds Howled hoarsely on the main; and down the skies Into the hollow seas the fierce rain rushed, As if its ev'ry drop were hot with wrath; And, like a thousand serpents intercoiled, The lightnings glared and hissed, and hissed and glared, And all the horror shrank in horror back Before the maddest peals that ever leaped Out from the thunder's throat.

Within the dark We silent sat. No rain fell on the rock, Nor in on land, nor shore; only on sea The upper and the lower waters met In wild delirium, like a thousand hearts Far parted — parted long — which meet to break, Which rush into each other's arms and break In terror and in tempests wild of tears. No rain fell on the rock; but flakes of foam Swept cold against our faces, where we sat Between the hush and howling of the winds,

Between the swells and sinkings of the waves, Between the stormy sea and stilly shore, Between the rushings of the maddened rains, Between the dark beneath and dark above.

We sat within the dread heart of the night: One, pale with terror; one, as calm and still And stern and moveless as the lone, low rock.

******