Mazelli, and Other Poems by George W. Sands (e book free reading txt) 📖

brethren you cotemn.
Think you that he who gave to man his mind,
The undying spark that quickens his clay frame,
Would fashion from the same material
Such mighty wonders as the spheres which go
Hymning around his everlasting throne!
Giving to them a beauty which alone
Could be conceived by him, which has great hand
Alone could mould into reality,
And yet deny them what he gave to thee,
Intelligence! a thing that knows not death?
Hast though not seen thine earth put forth her leaves,
Clothing her rugged mountain tops and sides,
Her forests in the vale, each tree and shrub,
With a fair foliage? hast though not beheld
Her weaving, in the sunny springtide hours,
A fairy web of emerald-bladed grass
To robe her valleys in? With every flow'r
Of graceful form, and soft and downy leaf,
And tender hue, and tint, that Beauty owns,
To deck her gentle breast? When Autumn came,
With its rich gifts of pleasant, mellow fruits,
Hast though not seen her wipe her sunburnt brow,
And shake her yellow locks from every hill?
Hast though not heard her holy songs of peace
And plenty warbled from each vocal grove,
And murmured by her myriads of streams?
Hast though not seen her, when the hollow winds,
Which moan the requiem of the dying year,
Raved through her leafless bowers, wrap about
Her breast a mantle, wherewith to protect
And nurse the seed, the trusting husbandman
Hath given to her keeping? Are thine acts
As full of wisdom, and as free from blame?
If not, then why deny to her the life
And spirit you possess?

Werner.

I did not laugh
In disbelief of what thy words declare,
But they stir such strange thoughts within my mind,
That, as I will not weep, I can but smile.
Methinks the darkness has grown less profound,--
A heavy, dim, and shadowy light, like that
Which, when the storm has chosen midnight's hour
Of stilly gloom, to hold its revel in,
First glimmers through the clouds which have been rent,
And torn by their own fierceness, hands about us.
The light increases still, and in the distance,
Enormous shadows, wearing distinct shapes,
Since seemingly immovable, and others
Like mighty, mastless, sailless, vessels, moved
By magic o'er a tideless, waveless ocean,
In calm, majestic silence float along!

Spirit.
Let us go nearer,
Now what seest though?

Werner.

Worlds like to that I live on, save that these
Seem made of living shades instead of dust;
Vast mountains, with tall trees and mighty rocks,
And fountains, gushing from their very summits;
Huge, towering cliffs, and deep and lonely glens,
And wide-mouthed caves that hold a deeper gloom,--
With precipices from whose edges soft
And silvery cataracts are leaping down;
Swift streams, that rush adown their rugged sides,
And quiet lakelets, that appear to sleep
In the embrace of the surrounding hills;
The cottage of the hardy hunter, perched
High on the rocks, like to an eagle's nest:
The shepherd's humble shieling, and his fold,
And, half-way up, broad vineyards, with their vines
Bending with purple clusters of ripe fruit;--
Wide valleys, with green meadows, and pure streams,
And gentle hills, where ripening harvests stand;
Majestic rivers, with their verdant banks
Studded with towns, and rural villages;
Motionless lakes, and seas without a wave,
And oceans pulseless as a dead man's heart!
And mighty cities, standing on their coasts,
With vasty walls and gilded palaces,
And giant tow'rs, and tapering spires, that seem
The guardians of all they overlook.
Churchyards, with their pale gravestones, that appear
Like watchers of the dead whose names they bear!
All these are there, but not a sign of life,
No living thing that creeps along the ground,
Or flies the air, or swims the wave, is seen.
It seems as if on all things some strong spell
Had in the twinkling of a star came down
And rocked them to an everlasting sleep!
Spirit! tell me if what I see is more
Than a delusion; if it be, whence came
These shades?

Spirit.

And have I not already said
That these things are, that they are quick with life,--
Such life as disembodied spirits have,--
That they are deathless? Thou need'st not inquire
Of me whence they are come, for thou hast seen
One of their number on its journey hither.
The period may not be far remote
When thine own planet, starting from its sphere,
Shall fright the dwellers of the stars that skirt
Its destined pathway to these silent realms!
Thou'st seen the comet rushing through the sky,
And, gazing on the glowing track which it
Had branded on the azure breast of space,
Thinking thy words were wisdom, thou hast said,
"When its full term of years has been fulfilled,
It shall return again." Not knowing that
The light thou sawest was reflected from
That sacred fire, which, in the end, shall purge
The spirit essence which pervades creation,
From the dull dust with which a wayward fate
Has clogged its being! Question me no more--
Remember what I said--I dare not tell
The secrets of Eternity. Look on
And learn whate'er thou canst.

Werner.

There is one thing which I at last have learned,--
To feel that with the increase of our knowledge
Our sorrows must increase. I oft have heard,
But never before have felt the truth of this.
To know that were it not for this clay mask,
I even now might pierce the shadowy veil
That wraps in mystery the things I see,
And comprehend their secret principle,
Will make life doubly hard to bear, and tempt
Me much to shake it prematurely off,
And snatch wings for my spirit ere its time.
A total ignorance were better than
The flash which from its slumber wakes the mind,
And then, departing, leaves it to itself,
In the wide maze of error, darkly groping.
Wisdom is not the medicine to heal
A discontented mind. I now know more
Than when I left the earth, but feel that I
Have bought my knowledge with increase of sorrow.

Spirit.

Did I not tell thee that its path were steep,
And hard to climb, and thick beset with thorns,--
And that its tempting, longed-for fruit, tho' bought
With a great price, is full of bitterness?
If though art satisfied, let us retrace
Our way to earth again; wert thou to go
Yet farther on, thou might'st regret the more
Our coming hither.

Werner.

What! is there aught still more remote than these
From the great centre of the universe,--
The fair domain of life and living things?

Spirit.

There is,--
A kingdom tenanted with such dark shapes,
That angels shudder when they look on them!
Thou surely dost not wish to visit it.

Werner.

Why not? There is within my mind a void
Whose vacant weight is harder to be borne
Than the keen stingings of more active pangs;
When it has traced the mystic chain of being
To its last link, it may perchance shake off
The misery of restless discontent,--
Its fulness then may sink it into rest.

Spirit.

I have no power to disobey thy word;
If thou wilt on, I must proceed with thee,
Even though in looking on I share the pangs
Of those who suffer.

Werner.

Come, then, I too must see them, tho' it cost
Me years of pain to gaze but for a moment.

Spirit.

'Twere harder now to find Eve's' buried dust,
Than to declare who has inherited
The largest portion of her prying spirit.

(Sings.)

Where Pain keepeth vigil
With Sorrow and Care,
And Horror sits watching
By dull-eyed Despair,--
Where the Spirit accurst
Maketh moan in its wo,
Thy wishes direct us,
And thither we go.

[Exeunt.


ACT III.

Scene I. Near the place of the damned. Enter Werner and Spirit.

Werner.

What piercing, stunning sounds assail my ear!
Wild shrieks and wrathful curses, groans and prayers,
A chaos of all cries! making the space
Through which they penetrate to flutter like
The heart of a trapped hare,--are revelling round us.
Unlike the gloomy realm we just have quitted,
Silent and solemn, all is restless here,
All wears the ashy hue of agony.
Above us bends a black and starless vault,
Which ever echoes back the fearful voices
That rise from the abodes of wo beneath.
Around us grim-browed desolation broods,
While, far below, a sea of pale gray clouds,
Like to an ocean tempest beaten, boils.
Whither shall we direct our journey now?

Spirit.

Right down through yon abyss of boiling clouds,
If though hast courage to attempt the plunge,
Our pathless way must be. A moment more
And we shall stand where angels seldom stand,
And devils almost pity when they stand,--
Behold!

Werner.

Eternal God!
Whose being, is of love, whose band is pow'r,
Whose breath is life, whose noblest attribute,--
The one most worthy of thyself~-is mercy!
Were these of thine immortal will conceived?
Has thy hand shaped them out the forms they wear?
Has thy breath made them quick with, breathing life?
And is thy mercy to their wailings deaf?
Poor creatures! I bad deemed that in my breast
Grief had congealed the hidden fount of tears,
But ye have drawn them from their frozen source
And I do weep for you!

Spirit.

What moves thee thus?
I thought thy heart so steeled in hardihood
Of universal hate, and pride, and scorn,
That even were the woes, which thou dost here
Behold endured by others, heaped on thee,
Thy haughty soul unmoved would feel them all;
Accounting its development of strength
To bear the worst decrees of ruthless fate,
Sufficient recompense!

Werner.

Misdeem me not,
If I have wept involuntary tears
O'er pangs beyond my pow'r to mitigate,
Believe me, 'twas in pity, not in fear.
But tell me, Spirit! is all hope extinct
In those who here sojourn, or do they look
Yet forward to some blest millennial day,
Which shall redeem them from this horrid place.

Spirit.

Best ask your theologians that question.
Some say that there are places purgatorial,
Where Error pays the price of her transgressions
In sufferings that efface the effects of sin.
And other some declare that when the soul
And clay are parted, heaven seals the doom
Of both, beyond repeal. Let thy own mind
Sit arbiter 'twixt these, and choose the truth.
Mark what approaches us, and mark it well.

Werner.

I cannot turn my gaze from it, and yet
It makes the warm blood curdle in my veins.
Than it, hell cannot hold a fouler form--
A thing of more unholy loathsomeness!
Its heavy eyes are dim and bleared with blood,
Its jaws, by strong convulsions fiercely worked,
Are clogged and clotted with mixed gore and foam!
A nauseous stench its filthy shape exhales,
And through its heaving bosom you may mark
The constant preying of a quenchless flame
That gnaws its heartstrings! while a harsh quick moan
Of mingled wrath, and madness, and despair,
Perpetually issues from its lips;--
And with unequal but unceasing steps,
It chases through the hot, sulphureous gloom,
A mocking phantom,--fair as it is foul!
With naked arms, white breast, and ebon locks,
And big black eyes that dart the humid flame
Which sets the heart ablaze; and red moist lips,
And checks as spotless as the falling flake
Ere it has touched the earth, and supple form
Wherein is