THE WORLD. SELF-DESTRUCTION.

“A Vain Shadow.”

The world,—what a world, ah me! Mouldy, worm-eaten, grey: Vain as a leaf from a tree, As a fading day, As veriest vanity, As the froth and the spray Of the hollow-billowed sea, As what was and shall not be, As what is and passes away.

“Lord, save us, we perish.”

O Lord, seek us, O Lord, find us In Thy patient care; Be Thy Love before, behind us, Round us, everywhere: Lest the god of this world blind us, Lest he speak us fair, Lest he forge a chain to bind us, Lest he bait a snare. Turn not from us, call to mind us, Find, embrace us, bear; Be Thy Love before, behind us, Round us, everywhere.

What is this above thy head, O Man?— The World, all overspread With pearls and golden rays And gems ablaze; A sight which day and night Fills an eye’s span.

What is this beneath thy feet, O Saint?— The World, a nauseous sweet Puffed up and perishing; A hollow thing, A lie, a vanity, Tinsel and paint.

What is she while time is time, O Man?— In a perpetual prime Beauty and youth she hath; And her footpath Breeds flowers thro’ dancing hours Since time began.

While time lengthens what is she, O Saint?— Nought: yea, all men shall see How she is nought at all, When her death-pall Of fire ends their desire And brands her taint.

Ah, poor Man, befooled and slow And faint! Ah, poorest Man, if so Thou turn thy back on bliss And choose amiss! For thou art choosing now: Sinner,—or Saint.

Babylon the Great.

Foul is she and ill-favoured, set askew: Gaze not upon her till thou dream her fair, Lest she should mesh thee in her wanton hair, Adept in arts grown old yet ever new. Her heart lusts not for love, but thro and thro’ For blood, as spotted panther lusts in lair; No wine is in her cup, but filth is there Unutterable, with plagues hid out of view. Gaze not upon her, for her dancing whirl Turns giddy the fixed gazer presently: Gaze not upon her, lest thou be as she When, at the far end of her long desire, Her scarlet vest and gold and gem and pearl And she amid her pomp are set on fire.

“Standing afar off for the fear of her torment.”

Is this the end? is there no end but this? Yea, none beside: No other end for pride And foulness and besottedness.

Hath she no friend? hath she no clinging friend? Nay, none at all; Who stare upon her fall Quake for themselves with hair on end.

Will she be done away? vanish away? Yea, like a dream; Yea, like the shades that seem Somewhat, and lo! are nought by day.

Alas for her amid man’s helpless moan, Alas for her! She hath no comforter: In solitude of fire she sits alone.

“O Lucifer, Son of the Morning!”

Oh fallen star! a darkened light, A glory hurtled from its car, Self-blasted from the holy height: Oh fallen star!

Fallen beyond earth’s utmost bar, Beyond return, beyond far sight Of outmost glimmering nebular.

Now blackness, which once walked in white; Now death, whose life once glowed afar; Oh son of dawn that loved the night, Oh fallen star!

Alas, alas! for the self-destroyed Vanish as images from a glass, Sink down and die down by hope unbuoyed:— Alas, alas!

Who shall stay their ruinous mass? Besotted, reckless, possessed, decoyed, They hurry to the dolorous pass.

Saints fall a-weeping who would have joyed, Sore they weep for a glory that was, For a fulness emptied into the void, Alas, alas!

As froth on the face of the deep, As foam on the crest of the sea, As dreams at the waking of sleep, As gourd of a day and a night, As harvest that no man shall reap, As vintage that never shall be, Is hope if it cling not aright, O my God, unto Thee.

“Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.”

In tempest and storm blackness of darkness for ever, A fire unextinguished, a worm’s indestructible swarm; Where no hope shall ever be more, and love shall be never, In tempest and storm; Where the form of all things is fashionless, void of all form; Where from death that severeth all, the soul cannot sever In tempest and storm.

Toll, bell, toll. For hope is flying Sighing from the earthbound soul: Life is sighing, life is dying: Toll, bell, toll.

Gropes in its own grave the mole Wedding darkness, undeserving, Tending to no different goal.

Self-slain soul, in vain thy sighing: Self-slain, who should make thee whole? Vain the clamour of thy crying: Toll, bell, toll.