Rampolli

II

     Dawn, far eastward, on the mountain!     Gray old times are growing young:     From the flashing colour-fountain     I will quaff it deep and long!—     Granted boon to Longing’s long privation!     Sweet love in divine transfiguration!     Comes at last, our old Earth’s native,     All-Heaven’s one child, simple, kind!     Blows again, in song creative,     Round the earth a living wind;     Blows to clear new flames that rush together     Sparks extinguished long by earthly weather.     Everywhere, from graves upspringing,     Rises new-born life, new blood!     Endless peace up to us bringing,     Dives he underneath life’s flood;     Stands in midst, with full hands, eyes caressing—     Hardly waits the prayer to grant the blessing.     Let his mild looks of invading     Deep into thy spirit go;     By his blessedness unfading     Thou thy heart possessed shalt know.     Hearts of all men, spirits all, and senses     Mingle, and a new glad dance commences.     Grasp his hands with boldness yearning;     Stamp his face thy heart upon;     Turning toward him, ever turning,     Thou, the flower, must face thy sun.     Who to him his heart’s last fold unfoldeth,     True as wife’s his heart for ever holdeth.     Ours is now that Godhead’s splendour     At whose name we used to quake!     South and north, its breathings tender     Heavenly germs at once awake!     Let us then in God’s full garden labour,     And to every bud and bloom be neighbour!

III

     Who in his chamber sitteth lonely,       And weepeth heavy, bitter tears;     To whom in doleful colours, only       Of want and woe, the world appears;     Who of the Past, gulf-like receding,       Would search with questing eyes the core,     Down into which a sweet woe, pleading,       Wiles him from all sides evermore—     As if a treasure past believing       Lay there below, for him high-piled,     After whose lock, with bosom heaving,       He breathless grasps in longing wild:     He sees the Future, waste and arid,       In hideous length before him stretch;     About he roams, alone and harried,       And seeks himself, poor restless wretch!—     I fall upon his bosom, tearful:       I once, like thee, with woe was wan;     But I grew well, am strong and cheerful,       And know the eternal rest of man.     Thou too must find the one consoler       Who inly loved, endured, and died—     Even for them that wrought his dolour       With thousand-fold rejoicing died.     He died—and yet, fresh each to-morrow,       His love and him thy heart doth hold;     Thou mayst, consoled for every sorrow,       Him in thy arms with ardour fold.     New blood shall from his heart be driven       Through thy dead bones like living wine;     And once thy heart to him is given,       Then is his heart for ever thine.     What thou didst lose, he keeps it for thee;       With him thy lost love thou shalt find;     And what his hand doth once restore thee,       That hand to thee will changeless bind.

IV

     Of the thousand hours me meeting,     And with gladsome promise greeting,       One alone hath kept its faith—     One wherein—ah, sorely grieved!—     In my heart I first perceived       Who for us did die the death.     All to dust my world was beaten;     As a worm had through them eaten       Withered in me bud and flower;     All my life had sought or cherished     In the grave had sunk and perished;       Pain sat in my ruined bower.     While I thus, in silence sighing,     Ever wept, on Death still crying,       Still to sad delusions tied,     All at once the night was cloven,     From my grave the stone was hoven,       And my inner doors thrown wide.     Whom I saw, and who the other,     Ask me not, or friend or brother!—       Sight seen once, and evermore!     Lone in all life’s eves and morrows,     This hour only, like my sorrows,       Ever shines my eyes before.

V

     If I him but have,1       If he be but mine,     If my heart, hence to the grave,       Ne’er forgets his love divine—     Know I nought of sadness,     Feel I nought but worship, love, and gladness.     If I him but have,       Pleased from all I part;     Follow, on my pilgrim staff,       None but him, with honest heart;     Leave the rest, nought saying,     On broad, bright, and crowded highways straying.     If I him but have,        Glad to sleep I sink;     From his heart the flood he gave        Shall to mine be food and drink;     And, with sweet compelling,     Mine shall soften, deep throughout it welling.     If I him but have,        Mine the world I hail;     Happy, like a cherub grave        Holding back the Virgin’s veil:     I, deep sunk in gazing,     Hear no more the Earth or its poor praising.     Where I have but him       Is my fatherland;     Every gift a precious gem       Come to me from his own hand!     Brothers long deplored,     Lo, in his disciples, all restored!

VI

     My faith to thee I break not,       If all should faithless be,     That gratitude forsake not       The world eternally.     For my sake Death did sting thee       With anguish keen and sore;     Therefore with joy I bring thee       This heart for evermore.     Oft weep I like a river       That thou art dead, and yet     So many of thine thee, Giver       Of life, life-long forget!     By love alone possessed,       Such great things thou hast done!     But thou art dead, O Blessed,       And no one thinks thereon!     Thou stand’st with love unshaken       Ever by every man;     And if by all forsaken,       Art still the faithful one.     Such love must win the wrestle;       At last thy love they’ll see,     Weep bitterly, and nestle       Like children to thy knee.     Thou with thy love hast found me!       O do not let me go!     Keep me where thou hast bound me       Till one with thee I grow.     My brothers yet will waken,       One look to heaven will dart—     Then sink down, love-o’ertaken,       And fall upon thy heart.

VII.

HYMN

     Few understand     The mystery of Love,     Know insatiableness,     And thirst eternal.     Of the Last Supper     The divine meaning     Is to the earthly senses a riddle;     But he that ever     From warm, beloved lips,     Drew breath of life;     In whom the holy glow     Ever melted the heart in trembling waves;     Whose eye ever opened so     As to fathom     The bottomless deeps of heaven—     Will eat of his body     And drink of his blood     Everlastingly.     Who of the earthly body     Has divined the lofty sense?     Who can say     That he understands the blood?     One day all is body,     One body:     In heavenly blood     Swims the blissful two.     Oh that the ocean     Were even now flushing!     And in odorous flesh     The rock were upswelling!     Never endeth the sweet repast;     Never doth Love satisfy itself;     Never close enough, never enough its own,     Can it have the beloved!     By ever tenderer lips     Transformed, the Partaken     Goes deeper, grows nearer.     Pleasure more ardent     Thrills through the soul;     Thirstier and hungrier     Becomes the heart;     And so endureth Love’s delight     From everlasting to everlasting.     Had the refraining     Tasted but once,     All had they left     To set themselves down with us     To the table of longing     Which will never be bare;     Then had they known Love’s     Infinite fullness,     And commended the sustenance     Of body and blood.

VIII

     Weep I must—my heart runs over:     Would he once himself discover—       If but once, from far away!     Holy sorrow! still prevailing     Is my weeping, is my wailing:       Would that I were turned to clay!     Evermore I hear him crying     To his Father, see him dying:       Will this heart for ever beat!     Will my eyes in death close never?     Weeping all into a river       Were a bliss for me too sweet!     Hear I none but me bewailing?     Dies his name an echo failing?       Is the world at once struck dead?     Shall I from his eyes, ah! never     More drink love and life for ever?       Is he now for always dead?     Dead? What means that sound of dolour?     Tell me, tell me thou, a scholar,       What it means, that word so grim.     He is silent; all turn from me!     No one on the earth will show me       Where my heart may look for him!     Earth no more, whate’er befall me,     Can to any gladness call me!       She is but one dream of woe!     I too am with him departed:     Would I lay with him, still-hearted,       In the region down below!     Hear, me, hear, his and my father!     My dead bones, I pray thee, gather       Unto his—and soon, I pray!     Grass his hillock soon will cover,     Soon the wind will wander over,       Soon his form will fade away.     If his love they once perceived,     Soon, soon all men had believed,       Letting all things else go by!     Lord of love him only owning,     All would weep with me bemoaning,       And in bitter woe would die!

IX

     He lives! he’s risen from the dead!       To every man I shout;     His presence over us is spread,       Goes with us in and out.     To each I say it; each apace       His comrades telleth too—     That straight will dawn in every place       The heavenly kingdom new.     Now, to the new mind, first appears       The world a fatherland;     A new life men receive, with tears       Of rapture, from his hand.     Down into deepest gulfs of sea       Grim Death hath sunk away;     And now each man with holy glee,       Can face his coming day.     The darksome road that he hath gone       Leads out on heaven’s floor:     Who heeds the counsel of the Son       Enters the Father’s door.     Down here weeps no one any more       For friend that shuts his eyes;     For, soon or late, the parting sore       Will change to glad surprise.     And now to every friendly deed       Each heart will warmer glow;     For many a fold the fresh-sown seed       In lovelier fields will blow.     He lives—will sit beside our hearths,       The greatest with the least;     Therefore this day shall be our Earth’s       Glad Renovation-feast.

X

     The times are all so wretched!       The heart so full of cares!     The future, far outstretched,       A spectral horror wears.     Wild terrors creep and hover       With foot so ghastly soft!     Our souls black midnights cover       With mountains piled aloft.     Firm props like reeds are waving;       For trust is left no stay;     Our thoughts, like whirlpool raving,       No more the will obey!     Frenzy, with eye resistless,       Decoys from Truth’s defence;     Life’s pulse is flagging listless,       And dull is every sense.     Who hath the cross upheaved       To shelter every soul?     Who lives, on high received,       To make the wounded whole?     Go to the tree of wonder;       Give silent longing room;     Issuing flames asunder       Thy bad dream will consume.     Draws thee an angel tender       In saftey to the strand:     Lo, at thy feet in splendour       Lies spread the Promised Land!

XI

     I know not what were left to draw me,       Had I but him who is my bliss;     If still his eye with pleasure saw me,       And, dwelling with me, me would miss.     So many search, round all ways going,       With face distorted, anxious eye,     Who call themselves the wise and knowing,       Yet ever pass this treasure by!     One man believes that he has found it,       And what he has is nought but gold;     One takes the world by sailing round it:       The deed recorded, all is told!     One man runs well to gain the laurel;       Another, in Victory’s fane a niche:     By different Shows in bright apparel       All are befooled, not one made rich!     Hath He not then to you appeared?       Have ye forgot Him turning wan     Whose side for love of us was speared—       The scorned, rejected Son of Man?     Of Him have you not read the story—       Heard one poor word upon the wind?     What heavenly goodness was his glory,       Or what a gift he left behind?     How he descended from the Father,       Of loveliest mother infant grand?     What Word the nations from him gather?       How many bless his healing hand?     How, thereto urged by mere love, wholly       He gave himself to us away,     And down in earth, foundation lowly,       First stone of God’s new city, lay?     Can such news fail to touch us mortals?       Is not to know the man pure bliss?     Will you not open all your portals       To him who closed for you the abyss?     Will you not let the world go faring?       For Him your dearest wish deny?     To him alone your heart keep baring,       Who you has shown such favour high?     Hero of love, oh, take me, take me!       Thou art my life! my world! my gold!     Should every earthly thing forsake me,       I know who will me scatheless hold!     I see Thee my lost loves restoring!       True evermore to me thou art!     Low at thy feet heaven sinks adoring,       And yet thou dwellest in my heart!

XII

     Earth’s Consolation, why so slow?     Thy inn is ready long ago;     Each lifts to thee his hungering eyes,     And open to thy blessing lies.     O Father, pour him forth with might;     Out of thine arms, oh yield him quite!     Shyness alone, sweet shame, I know,     Kept him from coming long ago!     Haste him from thine into our arm     To take him with thy breath yet warm;     Thick clouds around the baby wrap,     And let him down into our lap.     In the cool streams send him to us;     In flames let him glow tremulous;     In air and oil, in sound and dew,     Let him pierce all Earth’s structure through.     So shall the holy fight be fought,     So come the rage of hell to nought;     And, ever blooming, dawn again     The ancient Paradise of men.     Earth stirs once more, grows green and live;     Full of the Spirit, all things strive     To clasp with love the Saviour-guest,     And offer him the mother-breast.     Winter gives way; a year new-born     Stands at the manger’s alter-horn;     ‘Tis the first year of that new Earth     Claimed by the child in right of birth.     Our eyes they see the Saviour well,     Yet in them doth the Saviour dwell;     With flowers his head is wreathed about;     From every flower himself smiles out.     He is the star; he is the sun;     Life’s well that evermore will run;     From herb, stone, sea, and light’s expanse     Glimmers his childish countenance.     His childlike labour things to mend,     His ardent love will never end;     He nestles, with unconscious art,     Divinely fast to every heart.     To us a God, to himself a child,     He loves us all, self un-defiled;     Becomes our drink, becomes our food—     His dearest thanks, a heart that’s good.     The misery grows yet more and more;     A gloomy grief afflicts us sore:     Keep him no longer, Father, thus;     He will come home again with us!

XIII

     When in hours of fear and failing,       All but quite our heart despairs;     When, with sickness driven to wailing.       Anguish at our bosom tears;     Then our loved ones we remember;       All their grief and trouble rue;     Clouds close in on our December       And no beam of hope shines through!     Oh but then God bends him o’er us!       Then his love comes very near!     Long we heavenward then—before us       Lo, his angel standing clear!     Life’s cup fresh to us he reaches;       Whispers comfort, courage new;     Nor in vain our prayer beseeches       Rest for our beloved ones too.

XIV

     Who once hath seen thee, Mother fair,     Destruction him shall never snare;     His fear is, from thee to be parted;     He loves thee evermore, true-hearted;     Thy grace remembered is the source     Whereout springs hence his spirit’s highest force.     My heart is very true to thee;     My ever failing thou dost see:     Let me, sweet mother, yet essay thee—     Give me one happy sign, I pray thee.     My whole existence rests in thee:     One moment, only one, be thou with me.     I used to see thee in my dreams,     So fair, so full of tenderest beams!     The little God in thine arms lying     Took pity on his playmate crying:     But thou with high look me didst awe,     And into clouds of glory didst withdraw.     What have I done to thee, poor wretch?     To thee my longing arms I stretch!     Are not thy holy chapels ever     My resting-spots in life’s endeavour?     O Queen, of saints and angels blest,     This heart and life take up into thy rest!     Thou know’st that I, beloved Queen,     All thine and only thine have been!     Have I not now, years of long measure,     In silence learned thy grace to treasure?     While to myself yet scarce confest,     Even then I drew milk from thy holy breast.     Oh, countless times thou stood’st by me!     I, merry child, looked up to thee!     His hands thy little infant gave me     In sign that one day he would save me;     Thou smiledst, full of tenderness,     And then didst kiss me: oh the heavenly bliss!     Afar stands now that gladness brief;     Long have I companied with grief;     Restless I stray outside the garden!     Have I then sinned beyond thy pardon?     Childlike thy garment’s hem I pull:     Oh wake me from this dream so weariful!     If only children see thy face,     And, confident, may trust thy grace,     From age’s bonds, oh, me deliver,     And make me thine own child for ever!     The love and truth of childhood’s prime     Dwell in me yet from that same golden time.

XV

     In countless pictures I behold thee,       O Mary, lovelily expressed,     But of them all none can unfold thee       As I have seen thee in my breast!     I only know the world’s loud splendour       Since then is like a dream o’erblown;     And that a heaven, for words too tender,       My quieted spirit fills alone.

A PARABLE

Long ago, there lived far to the west a very young man, good, but extremely odd. He tormented himself continually about this nothing and that nothing, always walked in silence and straight before him, sat down alone when the others were at their sports and merry-makings, and brooded over strange things. Caves and woods were his dearest haunts; and there he talked on and on with beasts and birds, with trees and rocks—of course not one rational word, but mere idiotic stuff, to make one laugh to death. He continued, however, always moody and serious, in spite of the utmost pains that the squirrel, the monkey, the parrot, and the bullfinch could take to divert him, and set him in the right way. The goose told stories, the brook jingled a ballad between, a great thick stone cut ridiculous capers, the rose stole lovingly about him from behind and crept through his locks, while the ivy stroked his troubled brow. But his melancholy and gravity were stubborn. His parents were much troubled, and did not know what to do. He was in good health, and ate well enough; they had never caused him any offence; and, until a few years ago, he had been the liveliest and merriest of them all, foremost in all their games, and a favourite with all the maidens. He was very handsome, looked like a picture, and danced like an angel. Amongst the maidens was one, a charming and beautiful creature, who looked like wax, had hair like golden silk, and cherry-red lips, was a doll for size, and had coal-black, yes, raven-black eyes. Whoever saw her was ready to swoon, she was so lovely. Now Rosebud, for that was her name, was heartily fond of the handsome Hyacinth, for that was his name, and he loved her fit to die. The other children knew nothing of it. A violet told them of it first. The little house-cats had been quite aware of it, for the houses of their parents lay near each other. So when Hyacinth stood at night by his window, and Rosebud at hers, and the cats ran past mouse-hunting, they saw the two standing there, and often laughed and tittered so loud that they heard it and were offended. The violet told it in confidence to the strawberry, and she told it to her friend, the raspberry, who never ceased rasping when Hyacinth came along; so that by and by the whole garden and wood were in the secret, and when Hyacinth went out, he heard on all sides the cry: “Little Rosy is my posy!” This vexed him; but the next moment he could not help laughing from the bottom of his heart, when the little lizard came slipping along, sat down on a warm stone, waggled his tail, and sang—

     “Little Rosebud, good and wise,     All at once has lost her eyes:     Taking Hyacinth for her mother,     Round his neck her arms she flings;     Then perceiving ‘tis another—     Starts with terror?—no, but clings—     Think of that!—fast as before,     Only kissing all the more!”

Alas, how soon was the grand time over! There came a man out of strange lands, who had travelled wondrous far and wide, had a long beard, deep eyes, frightful eyebrows, and a strange garment with many folds, and inwoven with curious figures. He seated himself before the house of Hyacinth’s parents. Hyacinth at once became very inquisitive, and sat down beside him, and brought him bread and wine. Then parted he his white beard, and told stories deep into the night; and Hyacinth never stirred or tired of listening. This much they learned afterward, that he talked a great deal about strange lands, unknown countries, and amazingly wonderful things; stopped there three days, and crept with Hyacinth down into deep shafts. Little Rosebud execrated the old sorcerer pretty thoroughly, for Hyacinth was altogether absorbed in his conversation, and paid no heed to anything else, hardly even to the swallowing of a mouthful of food. At length the man took his departure, but left with Hyacinth a little book which no man could read. Hyacinth gave him fruit, and bread, and wine to take with him, and accompanied him a long way. Then he came back sunk in thought, and thereafter took up a quite new mode of life. Rosebud was in a very sad way about him, for from that time forward he made little of her, and kept himself always to himself. But it came to pass that one day he came home, and was like one born again. He fell on his parents’ neck and wept. “I must away to a foreign land!” he said: “the strange old woman in the wood has told me what I must do to get well; she has thrown the book into the fire, and has made me come to you to ask your blessing. Perhaps I shall be back soon, perhaps never more. Say good-bye to Rosebud for me. I should have been glad to have a talk with her; I do not know what has come to me: I must go! When I would think to recall old times, immediately come thoughts more potent in between; my rest is gone, and my heart and love with it; and I must go find them! I would gladly tell you whither, but do not myself know; it is where dwells the mother of things, the virgin with the veil; for her my spirit is on fire. Farewell!” He tore himself from them, and went out. His parents lamented and shed tears. Rosebud kept her chamber, and wept bitterly.

Hyacinth now ran, as fast as he could, through valleys and wildernesses, over mountains and streams, toward the land of mystery. Everywhere he inquired—of men and beasts, of rocks and trees,—after the sacred goddess Isis. Many laughed, many held their peace; nowhere did he get an answer. At first he passed through a rugged wild country; mists and clouds threw themselves in his way, but he rushed on impetuously. Then he came to boundless deserts of sand—mere glowing dust; and as he went his mood changed also; the time became tedious to him, and his inward unrest abated; he grew gentler, and the stormy impulse in him passed by degrees into a mild yet powerful attraction, wherein his whole spirit was dissolved. It seemed as if many years lay behind him.

And now the country became again richer and more varied, the air soft and blue, the way smoother. Green bushes enticed him with their pleasant shadows, but he did not understand their speech; they seemed indeed not to speak, and yet they filled his heart with their green hues, and their cool, still presence. Ever higher in him waxed that same sweet longing, and ever broader and juicier grew the leaves, ever louder and more jocund the birds and beasts, balmier the fruits, darker the heavenly blue, warmer the air, and more ardent his love. The time went ever faster, as if it knew itself near the goal.

One day he met a crystal rivulet, and a multitude of flowers, coming down into a valley between dark, columnar cliffs. They greeted him friendlily, with familiar words. “Dear country-folk,” said he, “where shall I find the sacred dwelling of Isis? Hereabouts it must be, and here, I guess, you are more at home than I.” “We also are but passing through,” replied the flowers; “a spirit-family is on its travels, and we are preparing for them their road and quarters. A little way back, however, we passed through a country where we heard her name mentioned. Only go up, where we came down, and thou wilt soon learn more.” The flowers and the brook smiled as they said it, offered him a cool draught, and went on their way. Hyacinth followed their counsel, kept asking, and came at last to that dwelling he had sought so long, which lay hid among palms and other rare plants. His heart beat with an infinite longing, and the sweetest apprehension thrilled him in this abode of the eternal seasons. Amid heavenly odours he fell asleep, for Dream alone could lead him into the holy of holies. In marvellous mode Dream conducted him through endless rooms full of strange things, by means of witching sounds and changeful harmonies. All seemed to him so familiar, and yet strange with an unknown splendour; then vanished the last film of the perishable as if melted into air, and he stood before the celestial virgin. Then he lifted the thin glistening veil, and— Rosebud sank into his arms. A far-off music surrounded the mysteries of love’s reunion and the outpouring of their longings, and shut out from the scene of their rapture everything alien to it.