INSURRECTION

POOR soul! a captive in a prison-house Dreaming of pastures, is not more degraded Through rags and shackles and the insidious louse, And naked splendour of the body faded, Than our uneasy spirit, dimly haunted By vision of some state, some wisdom whole; Prophetic down unhoped-for distance; taunted; Dissentient and disquiet guest, the soul.

Would I were done with flesh, or flesh with me, —Frailty from frailty seeking prop and stay!— Would that from all such trammels I were free, Hindered no more by quagmires of the clay, Then with an energy controlled and fierce Might I on greater secrets turn, and fight Through with unswathed and polished weapon; pierce Through to some wisdom, to some lake of light. A sinewy spirit, muscular and lean, Should be my captain, striding ever on Over harsh mountains where the wind blew keen, Peak after peak, till the last peak was won. Angry I strive, loving the world I hate, Hating the flesh I love; but all in vain. Freed for an hour, then, fall’n from ghostly state, Sink to the clasp of siren foes again.

(Yet much is merry in men’s moods diverse. I am no mystic, I, that I should preach With lips string-drawn as tight as miser’s purse, Dispense thin wisdom by my scrannel speech; No, none, thank God, can more have loved good laughter, Beauty, well-being, perilous lottery, Or paid the reckoning that followed after With smaller grudge to justice than did I.)

Sometimes I met with one, and would have cried, “Pilgrim! by the proud manner of your going Clearly you ask no alms when ills betide. Though of your journey’s end I have no knowing, Travel a little distance by my side. Lonely am I; lonely; I have not spoken Closely with friend this many a questing day; Body, my beast of burden, stumbles broken, Rowelled by desperate spur along the way. Pilgrim, if lonely spirit cross another And pride in me salute in you your pride, Shall we not either recognise a brother?” But reticence held me, and I passed him wide.

And sometimes met with those who offered me Comfort upholstered like a harlot’s bed With winks for ribbons, shrugs to swansdown wed, And squalor under frowsy frippery. This draggletail of passion should be mine, This slattern bastard born of spleen and lust, Convention’s shrewd Bacchante, if I must Yield to the senses’ feverish anodyne! But I would turn, and, half-defeated, failing, (How near defeat, they never guessed or knew,) Load my last breath with scorn, and cry “You? You?” And cry, at bay before their vanguard, railing,

“What! you had vision? mountains, comets, seas, Wild storm, wild beauty, wild embattled flames, You harnessed to your tongues with hackneyed ease. Tamers of splendour! those familiar names Troubled you not, less kingly, more remote Than gain and ease, your god, your man-made grail. Not nature’s giants, not cosmic menace smote Your souls with awe, or thrust you down the scale. No, nor the thoughts your thoughts could not embrace, A God’s intention, void, sublime, or strange, The birth or death of time, the bourn of space, Nor unimaginable colours’ range, Nor the continuous eastward roll of earth, Half, in the energy of day aware; Half, where the sweeping shadow curves its girth, Within night’s darkened temple cowled in prayer. No deep misgivings, no mysterious faith; Your very god was passed from hand to hand; You had no inkling of the nobler breath Blown on the spark you could not understand.

“The little spark within the heart of man. How should you know the desperate clutch of fingers That feel the moment slipping, feel the dear Infrequent moment slipping as it lingers, The flaming hour ironic in its fleetness, The rush of vision swift beyond belief? Near, as the dead to the incredulous living; So dead, the heart is rigid with its grief. What would you offer me as compensation After your sloth had blanketed my fire? Your deepest peace, satiety Lethean; Your aim, diversion; and your spur, desire. Tragic, or merry, be the body’s passion, Ordained or gay; not, not the sordid mean! Your soul’s a skinny waif, that was not driven To sin, but sought small solaces unclean. You struck no fire from flint; you neither knew Fasting nor feasting; vigour, nor a kiss; The silk pavilioned bed of Aphrodite, Or woodland hardihood of Artemis.

“Ashamed of tolerance, but more ashamed Of hot intolerance; who hold the snare Less perilous when fraudulently named; Forgetting folly, while remembering care; Who shun the sinner with averted eyes; Mistrust the impulse, danger in its breath; Who think truth wholly truth, lies wholly lies; Who never lived, but duly wept at death; Who could not gaily stake the cherished whole Upon the spinning coin’s fantastic turn; Who count the moneyed value of your soul, And give, but, giving, claim the just return.

“I’ll dip contempt’s broad ladle for a measure Lest I accept reprieve in such a guise, Such cheap attainment where I most despise, Or lull disquiet by such sham of pleasure. Love, amongst counterfeits and marsh-light gleams Already arch-impostor, doubly aped By lust, to parody (most rarely shaped), The consummation of our difficult dreams!”