[Plotinus, the Greek philosopher, had a certain proper mode of ecstasy, whereby, as Porphyry saith, his soul, becoming free from his deathly flesh, was made one with the Spirit that is in the World.]
ALAS, the path is lost, we cannot leave Our bright, our clouded life, and pass away As through strewn clouds, that stain the quiet eve, To heights remoter of the purer day. The soul may not, returning whence she came, Bathe herself deep in Being, and forget The joys that fever, and the cares that fret, Made once more one with the eternal flame That breathes in all things ever more the same. She would be young again, thus drinking deep Of her old life; and this has been, men say, But this we know not, who have only sleep To soothe us, sleep more terrible than day, Where dead delights, and fair lost faces stray, To make us weary at our wakening; And of that long-lost path to the Divine We dream, as some Greek shepherd erst might sing, Half credulous, of easy Proserpine And of the lands that lie 'beneath the day's decline.'
THE SHADE OF HELEN.
[Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the Gods, having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, sent the same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans slew each other.]
WHY from the quiet hollows of the hills, And extreme meeting place of light and shade, Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became Clouds among sister clouds, where fair spent beams And dying glories of the sun would dwell, Why have they whom I know not, nor may know, Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me, And borne me from the silentshadowy hills, Hither, to noise and glow of alien life, To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war?
One speaks unto me words that would be sweet, Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not, And some strange force, within me or around, Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh, And somewhere there is fever in the halls, That troubles me, for no such trouble came To vex the cool far hollows of the hills.
The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry, That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town, Are little to lose, if they may keep me here, And see me flit, a pale and silent shade, Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines.
At other hours another life seems mine, Where one great river runs unswollen of rain, By pyramids of unremembered kings, And homes of men obedient to the Dead. There dark and quiet faces come and go Around me, then again the shriek of arms, And all the turmoil of the Ilian men. What are they? Even shadows such as I. What make they? Even this - the sport of Gods - The sport of Gods, however free they seem. Ah would the game were ended, and the light, The blinding light, and all too mighty suns, Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades, Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist, Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills. Ah, would 't were the cloud's playtime, when the sun Clothes us in raiment of a rosy flame, And through the sky we flit, and gather grey, Like men that leave their golden youth behind, And through their wind-driven ways they gather grey, And we like them grow wan, and the chill East Receives us, as the Earth accepts all men, - But WE await the dawn of a new day.
SONNETS TO POETS.
I.- JACQUES TAHUREAU. 1530.