While the yellow constellations ...
While
the yellow constellations shine with pale and tender glory,
In the lilac-scented stillness, let us listen to Earth's story.
All the flow'rs like moths a-flutter glimmer rich with dusky hues,
Everywhere around us seem to fall from nowhere the sweet dews.
Through the drowsy lull, the murmur, stir of leaf and sleep hum
We can feel a gay heart beating, hear a magic singing come.
Ah, I think that as we linger lighting at Earth's olden fire
Fitful gleams in clay that perish, little sparks that soon expire,
So the mother brims her gladness from a life beyond her own,
From whose darkness as a fountain up the fiery days are thrown
Starry worlds which wheel in splendour, sunny systems, histories,
Vast and nebulous traditions told in the eternities:
And our list'ning mother whispers through her children all the story:
Come, the yellow constellations shine with pale and tender glory!
Irish Theosophist, October 15, 1892
Faint
grew the yellow buds of light
Far
flickering beyond the snows,
As
leaning o'er the shadowy white
Morn
glimmered like a pale primrose.
Within
an Indian vale below
A
child said "Om" with tender heart,
Watching
with loving eyes the glow
In
dayshine fade and night depart.
The
word which Brahma at his dawn
Outbreathes
and endeth at his night;
Whose
tide of sound so rolling on
Gives
birth to orbs of golden light;
And
beauty, wisdom, love, and youth,
By
its enchantment, gathered grow
In
age-long wandering to the truth,
Through
many a cycle's ebb and flow.
And
here all lower life was stilled,
The
child was lifted to the Wise:
A
strange delight his spirit filled,
And
Brahm looked from his shining eyes.
Irish Theosophist, December 15, 1892
The
East was crowned with snow-cold bloom
And
hung with veils of pearly fleece;
They
died away into the gloom,
Vistas
of peace, and deeper peace.
And
earth and air and wave and fire
In
awe and breathless silence stood,
For
One who passed into their choir
Linked
them in mystic brotherhood.
Twilight
of amethyst, amid
The
few strange stars that lit the heights,
Where
was the secret spirit hid,
Where
was Thy place, O Light of Lights?
The
flame of Beauty far in space -
When
rose the fire, in Thee? in Me?
Which
bowed the elemental race
To
adoration silently.
Irish Theosophist, February 15, 1893
Men
have made them gods of love,
Sun
gods, givers of the rain,
Deities
of hill and grove,
I
have made a god of Pain.
Of
my god I know this much,
And
in singing I repeat,
Though
there's anguish in his touch
Yet
his soul within is sweet.
Irish Theosophist, March 15, 1893
It
was the fairy of the place
Moving
within a little light,
Who
touched with dim and shadowy grace
The
conflict at its fever height.
It
seemed to whisper "quietness,"
Then
quietly itself was gone;
Yet
echoes of its mute caress
Still
rippled as the years flowed on.
It
was the Warrior within
Who
called "Awake! prepare for fight,
"Yet
lose not memory in the din;
"Make
of thy gentleness thy might.
"Make
of thy silence words to shake
"The
long-enthroned kings of earth;
"Make
of thy will the force to break
"Their
towers of wantonness and mirth."
It
was the wise all-seeing soul
Who
counseled neither war nor peace
"Only
be thou thyself that goal
"In
which the wars of time shall cease."
Irish Theosophist, April 15, 1893
Dusk
wraps the village in its dim caress;
Each
chimney's vapour, like a thin grey rod,
Mounting
aloft through miles of quietness,
Pillars
the skies of God.
Far
up they break or seem to break their line,
Mingling
their nebulous crests that bow and nod
Under
the light of those fierce stars that shine
Out
of the house of God.
Only
in clouds and dreams I felt those souls
In
the abyss, each fire hid in its clod,
From
which in clouds and dreams the spirit rolls
Into
the vast of God.
Irish Theosophist, May 15, 1893
Still
as the holy of holies breathes the vast,
Within
its crystal depths the stars grow dim,
Fire
on the altar of the hills at last
Burns
on the shadowy rim.
Moment
that holds all moments, white upon
The
verge it trembles; then like mists of flowers
Break
from the fairy fountain of the dawn
The
hues of many hours.
Thrown
downward from that high companionship
Of
dreaming inmost heart with inmost heart,
Into
the common daily ways I slip
My
fire from theirs apart.
Irish Theosophist, June 15, 1893
With
Thee a moment! then what dreams have play!
Traditions
of eternal toil arise,
Search
for the high, austere and lonely way,
Where
Brahma treads through the eternities.
Ah,
in the soul what memories arise!
And
with what yearning inexpressible,
Rising
from long forgetfulness I turn
To
Thee, invisible, unrumoured, still:
White
for Thy whiteness all desires burn!
Ah,
with what longing once again I turn!
Irish Theosophist, August 15, 1893
Heart-hidden
from the outer things I rose,
The
spirit woke anew in nightly birth
Into
the vastness where forever glows
The
star-soul of the earth.
There
all alone in primal ecstasy,
Within
her depths where revels never tire,
The
olden Beauty shines; each thought of me
Is
veined through with its fire.
And
all my thoughts are throngs of living souls;
They
breath in me, heart unto heart allied
With
joy undimmed, though when the morning tolls
The
planets may divide.
Irish Theosophist, September 15, 1893
In
day from some titanic past it seems
As
if a thread divine of memory runs;
Born
ere the Mighty One began his dreams,
Or
yet were stars and suns.
But
here an iron will has fixed the bars;
Forgetfulness
falls on earth's myriad races,
No
image of the proud and morning stars
Looks
at us from their faces.
Yet
yearning still to reach to those dim heights,
Each
dream remembered is a burning-glass,
Where
through to darkness from the light of lights
Its
rays in splendour pass.
Irish Theosophist, September 15, 1893
Oh,
be not led away.
Lured
by the colour of the sun-rich day.
The
gay romances of song
Unto
the spirit-life doth not belong.
Though
far-between the hours
In
which the Master of Angelic Powers
Lightens
the dusk within
The
Holy of Holies; be it thine to win
Rare
vistas of white light,
Half-parted
lips, through which the Infinite
Murmurs
her ancient story;
Hearkening
to whom the wandering planets hoary
Waken
primeval fires,
With
deeper rapture in celestial choirs
Breathe,
and with fleeter motion
Wheel
in their orbits through the surgeless ocean.
So,
hearken thou like these,
Intent
on her, mounting by slow degrees,
Until
thy song's elation
Echoes
her multitudinous meditation.
Irish Theosophist, November 15, 1893
The soul is its own witness and its own refuge.
Unto
the deep the deep heart goes.
It
lays its sadness nigh the breast:
Only
the mighty mother knows
The
wounds that quiver unconfessed.
It
seeks a deeper silence still;
It
folds itself around with peace,
Where
thoughts alike of good or ill
In
quietness unfostered, cease.
It
feels in the unwounding vast
For
comfort for its hopes and fears:
The
mighty mother bows at last;
She
listens to her children's tears.
Where
the last anguish deepens - there -
The
fire of beauty smites through pain,
A
glory moves amid despair,
The
Mother takes her child again.
Irish Theosophist, December 15, 1893
Dark
head by the fireside brooding,
Sad
upon your ears
Whirlwinds
of the earth intruding
Sound
in wrath and tears:
Tender-hearted,
in your lonely
Sorrow
I would fain
Comfort
you, and say that only
Gods
could feel such pain.
Only
spirits know such longing
For
the far away;
And
the fiery fancies thronging
Rise
not out of clay.
Keep
the secret sense celestial
Of
the starry birth;
Though
about you call the bestial
Voices
of the earth.
If
a thousand ages since
Hurled
us from the throne:
Then
a thousand ages wins
Back
again our own.
Sad
one, dry away your tears:
Sceptred
you shall rise,
Equal
mid the crystal spheres
With
seraphs kingly wise.
Irish Theosophist, February, 1894
Though
swift the days flow from her day,
No
one has left her day unnamed:
We
know what light broke from her ray
On
us, who in the truth proclaimed
Grew
brother with the stars and powers
That
stretch away - away to light,
And
fade within the primal hours,
And
in the wondrous First unite.
We
lose with her the right to scorn
The
voices scornful of her truth:
With
her a deeper love was born
For
those who filled her days with ruth.
To
her they were not sordid things:
In
them sometimes - her wisdom said -
The
Bird of Paradise had wings;
It
only dreams, it is not dead.
We
cannot for forgetfulness
Forego
the reverence due to them,
Who
wear at times they do not guess
The
sceptre and the diadem.
With
wisdom of the olden time
She
made the hearts of dust to flame;
And
fired us with the hope sublime
Our
ancient heritage to claim;
That
turning from the visible,
By
vastness unappalled nor stayed,
Our
wills might rule beside that Will
By
which the tribal stars are swayed;
And
entering the heroic strife,
Tread
in the way their feet have trod
Who
move within a vaster life,
Sparks
in the Fire - Gods amid God.
Irish Theosophist, August 15, 1894
By the Margin of the Great Deep
When
the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,
All
its vapourous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam
With
their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;
I
am one with the twilight's dream.
When
the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,
Every
heart of man is rapt within the mother's breast:
Full
of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,
I
am one with their hearts at rest.
From
our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love,
Strayed
away along the margin of the unknown tide,
All
its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above
Word
or touch from the lips beside.
Aye,
and deep, and deep, and deeper let me drink and draw
From
the olden Fountain more than light or peace or dream,
Such
primeval being as o'erfills the heart with awe,
Growing
one with its silent stream.
Irish Theosophist, March 15, 1894
One
thing in all things have I seen:
One
thought has haunted earth and air;
Clangour
and silence both have been
Its
palace chambers. Everywhere
I
saw the mystic vision flow,
And
live in men, and woods, and streams,
Until
I could no longer know
The
dream of life from my own dreams.
Sometimes
it rose like fire in me,
Within
the depths of my own mind,
And
spreading to infinity,
It
took the voices of the wind.
It
scrawled the human mystery,
Dim
heraldry - on light and air;
Wavering
along the starry sea,
I
saw the flying vision there.
Each
fire that in God's temple lit
Burns
fierce before the inner shrine,
Dimmed
as my fire grew near to it,
And
darkened at the light of mine.
At
last, at last, the meaning caught:
When
spirit wears its diadem,
It
shakes its wondrous plumes of thought,
And
trails the stars along with them.
Irish Theosophist, April 15, 1894
I
heard them in their sadness say,
"The
earth rebukes the thought of God:
We
are but embers wrapt in clay
A
little nobler than the sod."
But
I have touched the lips of clay -
Mother,
thy rudest sod to me
Is
thrilled with fire of hidden day,
And
haunted by all mystery.
Irish Theosophist, May 15, 1894
After
reading the Upanishads
Out
of the dusky chamber of the brain
Flows
the imperial will through dream on dream;
The
fires of life around it tempt and gleam;
The
lights of earth behind it fade and wane.
Passed
beyond beauty tempting dream on dream,
The
pure will seeks the hearthold of the light;
Sounds
the deep "OM," the mystic word of might;
Forth
from the hearthold breaks the living stream.
Passed
out beyond the deep heart music-filled,
The
kingly Will sits on the ancient throne,
Wielding
the sceptre, fearless, free, alone,
Knowing
in Brahma all it dared and willed.
Irish Theosophist, June 15, 1894
We
must pass like smoke, or live within the spirits' fire;
For
we can no more than smoke unto the flame return.
If
our thought has changed to dream, or will into desire,
As
smoke we vanish o'er the fires that burn.
Lights
of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days;
Surely
here is soul; with it we have eternal breath;
In
the fire of love we live or pass by many ways,
By
unnumbered ways of dream to death.
Irish Theosophist, July 15, 1894
I
have wept a million tears;
Pure
and proud one, where are thine?
What
the gain of all your years
That
undimmed in beauty shine?
All
your beauty cannot win
Truth
we learn in pain and sighs;
You
can never enter in
To
the Circle of the Wise.
They
are but the slaves of light
Who
have never known the gloom,
And
between the dark and bright
Willed
in freedom their own doom.
Think
not in your pureness there
That
our pain but follows sin;
There
are fires for those who dare
Seek
the Throne of Might to win.
Pure
one, from your pride refrain;
Dark
and lost amid the strife,
I
am myriad years of pain
Nearer
to the fount of life.
When
defiance fierce is thrown
At
the God to whom you bow,
Rest
the lips of the Unknown
Tenderest
upon the brow.
Irish Theosophist, September 15, 1894
The Robing of the King
"His candle shined upon my head, and by his light I walked
through
darkness." - Job, xxix. 3
On
the bird of air blue-breasted
glint
the rays of gold,
And
a shadowy fleece above us
waves
the forest old,
Far
through rumorous leagues of midnight
stirred
by breezes warm.
See
the old ascetic yonder,
Ah,
poor withered form!
Where
he crouches wrinkled over
by
unnumbered years
Through
the leaves the flakes of moonfire
fall
like phantom tears.
At
the dawn a kingly hunter
passed
proud disdain,
Like
a rainbow-torrent scattered
flashed
his royal train.
Now
the lonely one unheeded
seeks
earth's caverns dim,
Never
king or princes will robe them
radiantly
as him.
Mid
the deep enfolding darkness,
follow
him, oh seer,
While
the arrow will is piercing
fiery
sphere on sphere.
Through
the blackness leaps and sparkles
gold
and amethyst,
Curling,
jetting and dissolving
in
a rainbow mist.
In
the jewel glow and lunar
radiance
rise there
One,
a morning star in beauty,
young,
immortal, fair.
Sealed
in heavy sleep, the spirit
leaves
its faded dress,
Unto
fiery youth returning
out
of weariness.
Music
as for one departing,
joy
as for a king,
Sound
and swell, and hark! above him
cymbals
triumphing.
Fire
an aureole encircling
suns
his brow with gold
Like
to one who hails the morning
on
the mountains old.
Open
mightier vistas changing
human
loves to scorns,
And
the spears of glory pierce him
like
a Crown of Thorns.
As
the sparry rays dilating
o'er
his forehead climb
Once
again he knows the Dragon
Wisdom
of the prime.
High
and yet more high to freedom
as
a bird he springs,
And
the aureole outbreathing,
gold
and silver wings
Plume
the brow and crown the seraph.
Soon
his journey done
He
will pass our eyes that follow,
sped
beyond the sun.
None
may know the darker radiance,
King,
will there be thine.
Rapt
above the Light and hidden
in
the Dark Divine.
Irish Theosophist, September 15, 1895
Twilight
a blossom grey in shadowy valleys dwells:
Under
the radiant dark the deep blue-tinted bells
In
quietness reimage heaven within their blooms,
Sapphire
and gold and mystery. What strange perfumes,
Out
of what deeps arising, all the flower-bells fling,
Unknowing
the enchanted odorous song they sing!
Oh,
never was an eve so living yet: the wood
Stirs
not but breathes enraptured quietude.
Here
in these shades the Ancient knows itself, the Soul,
And
out of slumber waking starts unto the goal.
What
bright companions nod and go along with it!
Out
of the teeming dark what dusky creatures flit,
That
through the long leagues of the island night above
Come
wandering by me, whispering and beseeching love,-
As
in the twilight children gather close and press
Nigh
and more nigh with shadowy tenderness,
Feeling
they know not what, with noiseless footsteps glide
Seeking
familiar lips or hearts to dream beside.
Oh,
voices, I would go with you, with you, away,
Facing
once more the radiant gateways of the day;
With
you, with you, what memories arise, and nigh
Trampling
the crowded figures of the dawn go by;
Dread
deities, the giant powers that warred on men
Grow
tender brothers and gay children once again;
Fades
every hate away before the Mother's breast
Where
all the exiles of the heart return to rest.
Irish Theosophist, July 15, 1895
Still
rests the heavy share on the dark soil:
Upon
the dull black mould the dew-damp lies:
The
horse waits patient: from his lonely toil
The
ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes.
The
unbudding hedgerows, dark against day's fires,
Glitter
with gold-lit crystals: on the rim
Over
the unregarding city's spires
The
lonely beauty shines alone for him.
And
day by day the dawn or dark enfolds,
And
feeds with beauty eyes that cannot see
How
in her womb the Mighty Mother moulds
The
infant spirit for Eternity.
Irish Theosophist, January 15, 1895
Within
the iron cities
One
walked unknown for years,
In
his heart the pity of pities
That
grew for human tears
When
love and grief were ended
The
flower of pity grew;
By
unseen hands 'twas tended
And
fed with holy dew.
Though
in his heart were barred in
The
blooms of beauty blown;
Yet
he who grew the garden
Could
call no flower his own.
For
by the hands that watered,
The
blooms that opened fair
Through
frost and pain were scattered
To
sweeten the dull air.
Irish Theosophist, February 15, 1895
From
the cool and dark-lipped furrows
breathes
a dim delight
Aureoles
of joy encircle
every
blade of grass
Where
the dew-fed creatures silent
and
enraptured pass:
And
the restless ploughman pauses,
turns,
and wondering
Deep
beneath his rustic habit
finds
himself a king;
For
a fiery moment looking
with
the eyes of God
Over
fields a slave at morning
bowed
him to the sod.
Blind
and dense with revelation
every
moment flies,
And
unto the Mighty Mother
gay,
eternal, rise
All
the hopes we hold, the gladness,
dreams
of things to be.
One
of all they generations,
Mother,
hails to thee!
Hail!
and hail! and hail for ever:
though
I turn again
For
they joy unto the human
vestures
of pain.
I,
thy child, who went forth radiant
in
the golden prime
Find
thee still the mother-hearted
through
my night in time;
Find
in thee the old enchantment,
there
behind the veil
Where
the Gods my brothers linger,
Hail!
for ever, Hail!
Irish Theosophist, May 15, 1895
They
bathed in the fire-flooded fountains;
Life
girdled them round and about;
They
slept in the clefts of the mountains:
The
stars called them forth with a shout.
They
prayed, but their worship was only
The
wonder at nights and at days,
As
still as the lips of the lonely
Though
burning with dumbness of praise.
No
sadness of earth ever captured
Their
spirits who bowed at the shrine;
They
fled to the Lonely enraptured
And
hid in the Darkness Divine.
At
twilight as children may gather
They
met at the doorway of death,
The
smile of the dark hidden Father
The
Mother with magical breath.
Untold
of in song or in story,
In
days long forgotten of men,
Their
eyes were yet blind with a glory
Time
will not remember again.
Irish Theosophist, November 15, 1895
The Magi
"The
mountain was filled with the hosts of the Tuatha de Dannan." -
Old Celtic Poem
See
where the auras from the olden fountain
Starward
aspire;
The
sacred sign upon the holy mountain
Shines
in white fire:
Waving
and flaming yonder o'er the snows
The
diamond light
Melts
into silver or to sapphire glows
Night
beyond night;
And
from the heaven of heavens descends on earth
A
dew divine.
Come,
let us mingle in the starry mirth
Around
the shrine!
Enchantress,
mighty mother, to our home
In
thee we press,
Thrilled
by the fiery breath and wrapt in some
Vast
tenderness
The
homeward birds uncertain o'er their nest
Wheel
in the dome,
Fraught
with dim dreams of more enraptured rest,
Wheel
in the dome,
But
gather ye to whose undarkened eyes
The
night is day:
Leap
forth, Immortals, Birds of Paradise,
In
bright array
Robed
like the shining tresses of the sun;
And
by his name
Call
from his haunt divine the ancient one
Our
Father Flame.
Aye,
from the wonder-light that wraps the star,
Come
now, come now;
Sun-breathing
Dragon, ray thy lights afar,
Thy
children bow;
Hush
with more awe the breath; the bright-browed races
Are
nothing worth
By
those dread gods from out whose awful faces
The
earth looks forth
Infinite
pity, set in calm; their vision cast
Adown
the years
Beholds
how beauty burns away at last
Their
children's tears.
Now
while our hearts the ancient quietness
Floods
with its tide,
The
things of air and fire and height no less
In
it abide;
And
from their wanderings over sea and shore
They
rise as one
Unto
the vastness and with us adore
The
midnight sun;
And
enter the innumerable All,
And
shine like gold,
And
starlike gleam in the immortals' hall,
The
heavenly fold,
And
drink the sun-breaths from the mother's lips
Awhile
- and then
Fail
from the light and drop in dark eclipse
To
earth again,
Roaming
along by heaven-hid promontory
And
valley dim.
Weaving
a phantom image of the glory
They
knew in Him.
Out
of the fulness flow the winds, their son
Is
heard no more,
Or
hardly breathes a mystic sound along
The
dreamy shore:
Blindly
they move unknowing as in trance,
Their
wandering
Is
half with us, and half an inner dance
Led
by the King.
Irish Theosophist, January 15, 1896
O
hero of the iron age,
Upon
thy grave we will not weep,
Nor
yet consume away in rage
For
thee and thy untimely sleep.
Our
hearts a burning silence keep.
O
martyr, in these iron days
One
fate was sure for soul like thine:
Well
you foreknew but went your ways.
The
crucifixion is the sign,
The
meed of all the kingly line.
We
may not mourn--though such a night
Has
fallen on our earthly spheres
Bereft
of love and truth and light
As
never since the dawn of years; -
For
tears give birth alone to tears.
One
wreath upon they grave we lay
(The
silence of our bitter thought,
Words
that would scorch their hearts of clay),
And
turn to learn what thou has taught,
To
shape our lives as thine was wrought.
Irish Theosophist, April 15, 1896
From the Book of the Eagle - [St. John, i. 1-33]
In
the mighty Mother's bosom was the Wise
With
the mystic Father in aeonian night;
Aye,
for ever one with them though it arise
Going
forth to sound its hymn of light.
At
its incantation rose the starry fane;
At
its magic thronged the myriad race of men;
Life
awoke that in the womb so long had lain
To
its cyclic labours once again.
'Tis
the soul of fire within the heart of life;
From
its fiery fountain spring the will and thought;
All
the strength of man for deeds of love or strife,
Though
the darkness comprehend it not.
In
the mystery written here
John
is but the life, the seer;
Outcast
from the life of light,
Inly
with reverted sight
Still
he scans with eager eyes
The
celestial mysteries.
Poet
of all far-seen things
At
his word the soul has wings,
Revelations,
symbols, dreams
Of the inmost light which gleams.
The
winds, the stars, and the skies though wrought
By
the one Fire-Self still know it not;
And
man who moves in the twilight dim
Feels
not the love that encircles him,
Though
in heart, on bosom, and eyelids press
Lips
of an infinite tenderness,
He
turns away through the dark to roam
Nor
heeds the fire in his hearth and home.
They
whose wisdom everywhere
Sees
as through a crystal air
The
lamp by which the world is lit,
And
themselves as one with it;
In
whom the eye of vision swells,
Who
have in entranced hours
Caught
the word whose might compels
All
the elemental powers;
They
arise as Gods from men
Like
the morning stars again.
They
who seek the place of rest
Quench
the blood-heat of the breast,
Grow
ascetic, inward turning
Trample
down the lust from burning,
Silence
in the self the will
For
a power diviner still;
To
the fire-born Self alone
The
ancestral spheres are known.
Unto
the poor dead shadows came
Wisdom
mantled about with flame;
We
had eyes that could see the light
Born
of the mystic Father's might.
Glory
radiant with powers untold
And
the breath of God around it rolled.
Life
that moved in the deeps below
Felt
the fire in its bosom glow;
Life
awoke with the Light allied,
Grew
divinely stirred, and cried:
"This
is the Ancient of Days within,
Light
that is ere our days begin.
"Every
power in the spirit's ken
Springs
anew in our lives again.
We
had but dreams of the heart's desire
Beauty
thrilled with the mystic fire.
The
white-fire breath whence springs the power
Flows
alone in the spirit's hour."
Man
arose the earth he trod,
Grew
divine as he gazed on God:
Light
in a fiery whirlwind broke
Out
of the dark divine and spoke:
Man
went forth through the vast to tread
By
the spirit of wisdom charioted.
There
came the learned of the schools
Who
measure heavenly things by rules,
The
sceptic, doubter, the logician,
Who
in all sacred things precision,
Would
mark the limit, fix the scope,
"Art
thou the Christ for whom we hope?
Art
thou a magian, or in thee
Has
the divine eye power to see?"
He
answered low to those who came,
"Not
this, nor this, nor this I claim.
More
than the yearning of the heart
I
have no wisdom to impart.
I
am the voice that cries in him
Whose
heart is dead, whose eyes are dim,
'Make
pure the paths where through may run
The
light-streams from that golden one,
The
Self who lives within the sun.'
As
spake the seer of ancient days."
The
voices from the earthly ways
Questioned
him still: "What dost thou here,
If
neither prophet, king nor seer?
What
power is kindled by they might?"
"I
flow before the feet of Light:
I
am the purifying stream.
But
One of whom ye have no dream,
Whose
footsteps move among you still,
Though
dark, divine, invisible.
Impelled
by Him, before His ways
I
journey, though I dare not raise
Even
from the ground these eyes so dim
Or
look upon the feet of Him."
When
the dead or dreamy hours
Like
a mantle fall away,
Wakes
the eye of gnostic powers
To the light of hidden day,
And
the yearning heart within
Seeks
the true, the only friend,
He
who burdened with our sin
Loves
and loves unto the end.
Ah,
the martyr of the world,
With
a face of steadfast peace
Round
whose brow the light is curled:
'Tis
the Lamb with golden fleece.
So
they called of old the shining,
Such
a face the sons of men
See,
and all its life divining
Wake
primeval fires again.
Such
a face and such a glory
Passed
before the eyes of John,
With
a breath of olden story
Blown
from ages long gone.
Who
would know the God in man.
Deeper
still must be his glance.
Veil
on veil his eye must scan
For
the mystic signs which tell
If
the fire electric fell
On
the seer in his trance:
As
his way he upward wings
From
all time-encircled things,
Flames
the glory round his head
Like
a bird with wings outspread.
Gold
and silver plumes at rest:
Such
a shadowy shining crest
Round
the hero's head reveals him
To
the soul that would adore,
As
the master-power that heals him
And
the fount of secret lore.
Nature
such a diadem
Places
on her royal line,
Every
eye that looks on them
Knows
the Sons of the Divine.
Irish Theosophist, April 15, 1896
"Those who there take refuge nevermore return." - Bhagavad Gita
Ere
I lose myself in the vastness and drowse myself with the peace,
While
I gaze on the light and beauty afar from the dim homes of men,
May
I still feel the heart-pang and pity, love-ties that I would
not
release,
May
the voices of sorrow appealing call me back to their succour again.
Ere
I storm with the tempest of power the thrones and dominions
of
old,
Ere
the ancient enchantment allures me to roam through the star-
misty
skies,
I
would go forth as one who has reaped well what harvest the earth
may
unfold:
May
my heart be o'erbrimmed with compassion, on my brow be the
crown
of the wise.
I
would go as the dove from the ark sent forth with wishes and prayers
To
return with the paradise-blossoms that bloom in the eden
of light:
When
the deep star-chant of the seraphs I hear in the mystical airs
May
I capture one tone of their joy for the sad ones discrowned
in
the night.
Not
alone, not alone would I go to my rest in the Heart of the Love:
Were
I tranced in the innermost beauty, the flame of its tenderest breath,
I
would still hear the plaint of the fallen recalling me back from above
To
go down to the side of the mourners who weep in the shadow of death.
Irish Theosophist, May 15, 1896
"They took Iesous and scourged him." - St. John
Age
after age the world has wept
A
joy supreme - I saw the hands
Whose
fiery radiations swept
And
burned away his earthly bands:
And
where they smote the living dyes
Flashed
like the plumes of paradise.
Their
joys the heavy nations hush -
A
form of purple glory rose
Crowned
with such rays of light as flush
The
white peaks on their towering snows:
It
held the magic wand that gave
Rule
over earth, air, fire and wave.
What
sorrow makes the white cheeks wet:
The
mystic cross looms shadowy dim--
There
where the fourfold powers have met
And
poured their living tides through him,
The
Son who hides his radiant crest
To
the dark Father's bosom pressed.
Irish Theosophist, June 15, 1896
The
children awoke in their dreaming
While
earth lay dewy and still:
They
followed the rill in its gleaming
To
the heart-light of the hill.
Its
sounds and sights were forsaking
The
world as they faded in sleep,
When
they heard a music breaking
Out
from the heart-light deep.
It
ran where the rill in its flowing
Under
the star-light gay
With
wonderful colour was glowing
Like
the bubbles they blew in their play.
From
the misty mountain under
Shot
gleams of an opal star:
Its
pathways of rainbow wonder
Rayed
to their feet from afar.
From
their feet as they strayed in the meadow
It
led through caverned aisles,
Filled
with purple and green light and shadow
For
mystic miles on miles.
The
children were glad; it was lonely
To
play on the hill-side by day.
"But
now," they said, "we have only
To
go where the good people stray."
For
all the hill-side was haunted
By
the faery folk come again;
And
down in the heart-light enchanted
Were
opal-coloured men.
They
moved like kings unattended
Without
a squire or dame,
But
they wore tiaras splendid
With
feathers of starlight flame.
They
laughed at the children over
And
called them into the heart:
"Come
down here, each sleepless rover:
We
will show you some of our art."
And
down through the cool of the mountain
The
children sank at the call,
And
stood in a blazing fountain
And
never a mountain at all.
The
lights were coming and going
In
many a shining strand,
For
the opal fire-kings were blowing
The
darkness out of the land.
This
golden breath was a madness
To
set a poet on fire,
And
this was a cure for sadness,
And
that the ease of desire.
And
all night long over Eri
They
fought with the wand of light
And
love that never grew weary
The
evil things of night.
They
said, as dawn glimmered hoary,
"We
will show yourselves for an hour;"
And
the children were changed to a glory
By the beautiful magic of power.
The
fire-kings smiled on their faces
And
called them by olden names,
Till
they towered like the starry races
All
plumed with the twilight flames.
They
talked for a while together,
How
the toil of ages oppressed;
And
of how they best could weather
The
ship of the world to its rest.
The
dawn in the room was straying:
The
children began to blink,
When
they heard a far voice saying,
"You
can grow like that if you think!"
The
sun came in yellow and gay light:
They
tumbled out of the cot,
And
half of the dream went with daylight
And
half was never forgot.
Irish Theosophist, July 15, 1896
Their
wise little heads with scorning
They
laid the covers between:
"Do
they think we stay here till morning?"
Said
Rory and Aileen.
When
out their bright eyes came peeping
The
room was no longer there,
And
they fled from the dark world creeping
Up
a twilight cave of air.
They
wore each one a gay dress,
In
sleep, if you understand,
When
earth puts off its grey dress
To
robe it in faeryland.
Then
loud o'erhead was a humming
As
clear as the wood wind rings;
And
here were the air-boats coming
And
here the airy kings.
The
magic barks were gleaming
And
swift as the feathered throng:
With
wonder-lights out-streaming
They
blew themselves along.
And
up on the night-wind swimming,
With
pose and dart and rise,
Away
went the air fleet skimming
Through
a haze of jewel skies.
One
boat above them drifted
Apart
from the flying bands,
And
an air-chief bent and lifted
The
children with mighty hands.
The
children wondered greatly,
Three
air-chiefs met them there,
They
were tall and grave and stately
With
bodies of purple air.
A
pearl light with misty shimmer
Went
dancing about them all,
As
the dyes of the moonbow glimmer
On
a trembling waterfall.
The
trail of the fleet to the far lands
Was
wavy along the night,
And
on through the sapphire starlands
They
followed the wake of light.
"Look
down, Aileen," said Rory,
"The
earth's as thin as a dream."
It
was lit by a sun-fire glory
Outraying
gleam on gleam.
They
saw through the dream-world under
Its
heart of rainbow flame
Where
the starry people wander;
Like
gods they went and came.
The
children looked without talking
Till
Roray spoke again,
"Are
those our folk who are walking
Like
little shadow men?
"They
don't see what is about them,
They
look like pigmies small,
The
world would be full without them
And
they think themselves so tall!"
The
magic bark went fleeting
Like
an eagle on and on;
Till
over its prow came beating
The
foam-light of the dawn.
The
children's dream grew fainter,
Three
air-chiefs still were there,
But
the sun the shadow painter
Drew
five on the misty air.
The
dream-light whirled bewild'ring,
An
air-chief said, "You know.
You
are living now, my children,
Ten
thousand years ago."
They
looked at themselves in the old light,
And
mourned the days of the new
Where
naught is but darkness or cold light,
Till
a bell came striking through.
"We
must go," said the wise young sages:
It
was five at dawn by the chimes,
And
they ran through a thousand ages
From
the old De Danaan Times.
Irish Theosophist, August 15, 1896
Two
small sweet lives together
From
dawn till the dew falls down,
They
danced over rock and heather
Away
from the dusty town.
Dark
eyes like stars set in pansies,
Blue
eyes like a hero's bold -
Their
thoughts were all pearl-light fancies,
Their
hearts in the age of gold.
They
crooned o'er many a fable
And
longed for the bright-capped elves,
The
faery folk who are able
To
make us faery ourselves.
A
hush on the children stealing
They
stood there hand in hand,
For
the elfin chimes were pealing
Aloud
in the underland.
And
over the grey rock sliding,
A
fiery colour ran,
And
out of its thickness gliding
The
twinkling mist of a man -
Today
for the children had fled to
An
ancient yesterday,
And
the rill from its tunnelled bed too
Had
turned another way.
Then
down through an open hollow
The
old man led with a smile:
"Come,
star-hearts, my children, follow
To
the elfin land awhile."
The
bells above them were hanging,
Whenever
the earth-breath blew
It
made them go clanging, clanging,
The
vasty mountain through.
But
louder yet than the ringing
Came
the chant of the elfin choir,
Till
the mountain was mad with singing
And
dense with the forms of fire.
The
kings of the faery races
Sat
high on the thrones of might,
And
infinite years from their faces
Looked
out through eyes of light.
And
one in a diamond splendour
Shone
brightest of all that hour,
More
lofty and pure and tender,
They
called him the Flower of Power.
The
palace walls were glowing
Like
stars together drawn,
And
a fountain of air was flowing
The
primrose colour of dawn.
"Ah,
see!" said Aileen sighing,
With
a bend of her saddened head
Where
a mighty hero was lying,
He
looked like one who was dead.
"He
will wake," said their guide, "'tis but seeming,
And,
oh, what his eyes shall see
I
will know of only in dreaming
Till
I lie there still as he."
They
chanted the song of waking,
They
breathed on him with fire,
Till
the hero-spirit outbreaking,
Shot
radiant above the choir.
Like
a pillar of opal glory
Lit
through with many a gem--
"Why,
look at him now," said Rory,
"He
has turned to a faery like them!"
The
elfin kings ascending
Leaped
up from the thrones of might,
And
one with another blending
They
vanished in air and light.
The
rill to its bed came splashing
With
rocks on the top of that:
The
children awoke with a flashing
Of
wonder, "What were we at?"
They
groped through the reeds and clover -
"What
funny old markings: look here,
They
have scrawled the rocks all over:
It's
just where the door was: how queer!"
Irish Theosophist, September 15, 1896
They
sat with hearts untroubled,
The
clear sky sparkled above,
And
an ancient wisdom bubbled
From
the lips of a youthful love.
They
read in a coloured history
Of
And
half it seemed a mystery,
Familiar,
half, the while.
Till
living out of the story
Grew
old Egyptian men,
And
a shadow looked forth Rory
And
said, "We meet again!"
And
over Aileen a maiden
Looked
back through the ages dim:
She
laughed, and her eyes were laden
With
an old-time love for him.
In
a mist came temples thronging
With
sphinxes seen in a row,
And
the rest of the day was a longing
For
their homes of long ago.
"We'd
go there if they'd let us,"
They
said with wounded pride:
"They
never think when they pet us
We
are old like that inside."
There
was some one round them straying
The
whole of the long day through,
Who
seemed to say, "I am playing
At
hide-and-seek with you."
And
one thing after another
Was
whispered out of the air,
How
God was a big kind brother
Whose
home was in everywhere.
His
light like a smile come glancing
From
the cool, cool winds as they pass;
From
the flowers in heaven dancing
And
the stars that shine in the grass,
And
the clouds in deep blue wreathing,
And
most from the mountains tall,
But
God like a wind goes breathing
A
heart-light of gold in all.
It
grows like a tree and pushes
Its
way through the inner gloom,
And
flowers in quick little rushes
Of
love to a magic bloom.
And
no one need sigh now or sorrow
Whenever
the heart-light flies,
For
it comes again on some morrow
And
nobody ever dies.
The
heart of the Wise was beating
In
the children's heart that day,
And
many a thought came fleeting,
And
fancies solemn and gay.
They
were grave in a way divining
How
childhood was taking wings,
And
the wonder world was shining
With
vast eternal things.
The
solemn twilight fluttered
Like
the plumes of seraphim,
And
they felt what things were uttered
In
the sunset voice of Him.
They
lingered long, for dearer
Than
home were the mountain places
Where
God from the stars dropt nearer
Their
pale, dreamy faces.
Their
very hearts from beating
They
stilled in awed delight.
For
Spirit and children were meeting
In
the purple, ample night.
Dusk
its ash-grey blossoms sheds on violet skies
Over
twilight mountains where the heart-songs rise,
Rise
and fall and fade again from earth to air:
Earth
renews the music sweeter. Oh, come there.
Come,
ma cushla, come, as in ancient times
Rings
aloud and the underland with faery chimes.
Down
the unseen ways as strays each tinkling fleece
Winding
ever onward to a fold of peace,
So
my dreams go straying in a land more fair;
Half
I tread the dew-wet grasses, half wander there.
Fade
your glimmering eyes in a world grown cold:
Come,
ma cushla, with me to the mountain's fold,
Where
the bright ones call us waving to and fro:
Come,
my children, with me to the Ancient go.
Irish Theosophist, October 15, 1896
While
the earth is dark and grey
How
I laugh within: I know
In
my breast what ardours gay
From
the morning overflow.
Though
the cheek be white and wet
In
my heart no fear may fall:
There
my chieftain leads, and yet
Ancient
battle-trumpets call.
Bend
on me no hasty frown
If
my spirit slight your cares:
Sunlike
still my joy looks down
Changing
tears to beamy airs.
Think
me not of fickle heart
If
with joy my bosom swells
Though
your ways from mine depart:
In
the true are no farewells.
What
I love in you I find
Everywhere.
A friend I greet
In
each flower and tree and wind -
Oh,
but life is sweet, is sweet.
What
to you are bolts and bars
Are
to me the hands that guide
To
the freedom of the stars
Where
my golden kinsmen bide.
From
my mountain top I view:
Twilight's
purple flower is gone,
And
I send my song to you
On
the level light of dawn.
Irish Theosophist, November 15, 1896
An Ancient Eden
Our
legends tell of aery fountains upspringing in Eri, and
how
the people of long ago saw them not but only the Tuatha de Danaan.
Some
deem it was the natural outflow of water at these places which
was
held to be sacred; but above fountain, rill and river rose up
the
enchanted froth and foam of invisible rills and rivers breaking
forth
from Tir-na-noge, the soul of the island, and glittering in
the
sunlight of its mystic day. What we see here is imaged forth
from
that invisible soul and is a path thereto. In the heroic
Epic
of Cuculain Standish O'Grady writes of such a fountain, and
prefixes
his chapter with the verse from Genesis, "And four rivers
went
forth from Eden to water
the garden," and what follows in
reference
thereto.
The Fountain
of Shadowy Beauty
A Dream
I would I could weave in
The
colour, the wonder,
The
song I conceive in
My
heart while I ponder,
And
show how it came like
The
magi of old
Whose
chant was a flame like
The
dawn's voice of gold;
Who
dreams followed near them
A
murmur of birds,
And
ear still could hear them
Unchanted
in words.
In
words I can only
Reveal
thee my heart,
Oh,
Light of the Lonely,
The
shining impart.
Between
the twilight and the dark
The
lights danced up before my eyes:
I
found no sleep or peace or rest,
But
dreams of stars and burning skies.
I
knew the faces of the day--
Dream
faces, pale, with cloudy hair,
I
know you not nor yet your home,
The
Fount of Shadowy Beauty, where?
I
passed a dream of gloomy ways
Where
ne'er did human feet intrude:
It
was the border of a wood,
A
dreadful forest solitude.
With
wondrous red and fairy gold
The
clouds were woven o'er the ocean;
The
stars in fiery aether swung
And
danced with gay and glittering motion.
A
fire leaped up within my heart
When
first I saw the old sea shine;
As
if a god were there revealed
I
bowed my head in awe divine;
And
long beside the dim sea marge
I
mused until the gathering haze
Veiled
from me where the silver tide
Ran
in its thousand shadowy ways.
The
black night dropped upon the sea:
The
silent awe came down with it:
I
saw fantastic vapours flit
As
o'er the darkness of the pit.
When,
lo! from out the furthest night
A
speck of rose and silver light
Above
a boat shaped wondrously
Came
floating swiftly o'er the sea.
It
was no human will that bore
The
boat so fleetly to the shore
Without
a sail spread or an oar.
The
Pilot stood erect thereon
And
lifted up his ancient face,
(Ancient
with glad eternal youth
Like
one who was of starry race.)
His
face was rich with dusky bloom;
His
eyes a bronze and golden fire;
His
hair in streams of silver light
Hung
flamelike on his strange attire
Which
starred with many a mystic sign,
Fell
as o'er sunlit ruby glowing:
His
light flew o'er the waves afar
In
ruddy ripples on each bar
Along
the spiral pathways flowing.
It
was a crystal boat that chased
The
light along the watery waste,
Till
caught amid the surges hoary
The
Pilot stayed its jewelled glory.
Oh,
never such a glory was:
The
pale moon shot it through and through
With
light of lilac, white and blue:
And
there mid many a fairy hue
Of
pearl and pink and amethyst,
Like
lightning ran the rainbow gleams
And
wove around a wonder-mist.
The
Pilot lifted beckoning hands;
Silent
I went with deep amaze
To
know why came this Beam of Light
So
far along the ocean ways
Out
of the vast and shadowy night.
"Make
haste, make haste!" he cried. "Away!
A
thousand ages now are gone.
Yet
thou and I ere night be sped
Will
reck no more of eve or dawn."
Swift
as the swallow to its nest
I
leaped: my body dropt right down:
A
silver star I rose and flew.
A
flame burned golden at his breast:
I
entered at the heart and knew
My
Brother-Self who roams the deep,
Bird
of the wonder-world of sleep.
The
ruby body wrapped us round
As
twain in one: we left behind
The
league-long murmur of the shore
And
fleeted swifter than the wind.
The
distance rushed upon the bark:
We
neared unto the mystic isles:
The
heavenly city we could mark,
Its
mountain light, its jewel dark,
Its
pinnacles and starry piles.
The
glory brightened: "Do not fear;
For
we are real, though what seems
So
proudly built above the waves
Is
but one mighty spirit's dreams.
"Our
Father's house hath many fanes;
Yet
enter not and worship not,
For
thought but follows after thought
Till
last consuming self it wanes.
"The
Fount of Shadowy Beauty flings
Its
glamour o'er the light of day:
A
music in the sunlight sings
To
call the dreamy hearts away
Their
mighty hopes to ease awhile:
We
will not go the way of them:
The
chant makes drowsy those who seek
The
sceptre and the diadem.
"The
Fount of Shadowy Beauty throws
Its
magic round us all the night;
What
things the heart would be, it sees
And
chases them in endless flight.
Or
coiled in phantom visions there
It
builds within the halls of fire;
Its
dreams flash like the peacock's wing
And
glow with sun-hues of desire.
We
will not follow in their ways
Nor
heed the lure of fay or elf,
But
in the ending of our days
Rest
in the high Ancestral Self."
The
boat of crystal touched the shore,
Then
melted flamelike from our eyes,
As
in the twilight drops the sun
Withdrawing
rays of paradise.
We
hurried under arched aisles
That
far above in heaven withdrawn
With
cloudy pillars stormed the night,
Rich
as the opal shafts of dawn.
I
would have lingered then - but he -
"Oh,
let us haste: the dream grows dim,
Another
night, another day,
A
thousand years will part from him
"Who
is that Ancient One divine
From
whom our phantom being born
Rolled
with the wonder-light around
Had
started in the fairy morn.
"A
thousand of our years to him
Are
but the night, are but the day,
Wherein
he rests from cyclic toil
Or
chants the song of starry sway.
"He
falls asleep: the Shadowy Fount
Fills
all our heart with dreams of light:
He
wakes to ancient spheres, and we
Through
iron ages mourn the night.
We
will not wander in the night
But
in a darkness more divine
Shall
join the Father Light of Lights
And
rule the long-descended line."
Even
then a vasty twilight fell:
Wavered
in air the shadowy towers:
The
city like a gleaming shell,
Its
azures, opals, silvers, blues,
Were
melting in more dreamy hues.
We
feared the falling of the night
And
hurried more our headlong flight.
In
one long line the towers went by;
The
trembling radiance dropt behind,
As
when some swift and radiant one
Flits
by and flings upon the wind
The
rainbow tresses of the sun.
And
then they vanished from our gaze
Faded
the magic lights, and all
Into
a Starry Radiance fell
As
waters in their fountain fall.
We
knew our time-long journey o'er
And
knew the end of all desire,
And
saw within the emerald glow
Our
Father like the white sun-fire.
We
could not say if age or youth
Were
on his face: we only burned
To
pass the gateways of the Day,
The
exiles to the heart returned.
He
rose to greet us and his breath,
The
tempest music of the spheres,
Dissolved
the memory of earth,
The
cyclic labour and our tears.
In
him our dream of sorrow passed,
The
spirit once again was free
And
heard the song the Morning-Stars
Chant
in eternal revelry.
This
was the close of human story;
We
saw the deep unmeasured shine,
And
sank within the mystic glory
They
called of old the Dark Divine.
Well
it is gone now,
The
dream that I chanted:
On
this side the dawn now
I
sit fate-implanted.
But
though of my dreaming
The
dawn has bereft me,
It
all was not seeming
For
something has left me.
I
fell in some other
World
far from this cold light
The
Dream Bird, my brother,
Is
rayed with the gold light.
I
too in the Father
Would
hide me, and so,
Bright
Bird, to foregather
With
thee now I go.
Irish Theosophist, December 15, 1896
"Then
felt I like some watcher of the skies
When
a new planet swims within his ken."
I
who had sought afar from earth
The
faery land to greet,
Now
find content within its girth,
And
wonder nigh my feet.
To-day
a nearer love I choose
And
seek no distant sphere,
For
aureoled by faery dews
The
dear brown breasts appear.
With
rainbow radiance come and go
The
airy breaths of day,
And
eve is all a pearly glow
With
moonlit winds a-play.
The
lips of twilight burn my brow,
The
arms of night caress:
Glimmer
her white eyes drooping now
With
grave old tenderness.
I
close mine eyes from dream to be
The
diamond-rayed again,
As
in the ancient hours ere we
Forgot
ourselves to men.
And
all I thought of heaven before
I
find in earth below,
A
sunlight in the hidden core
To
dim the noon-day glow.
And
with the Earth my heart is glad,
I
move as one of old,
With
mists of silver I am clad
And
bright with burning gold.
Irish Theosophist, February 1896
"From
me spring good and evil."
Who
gave thee such a ruby flaming heart,
And
such a pure cold spirit? Side by side
I
know these must eternally abide
In
intimate war, and each to each impart
Life
from their pain, with every joy a dart
To
wound with grief or death the self-allied.
Red
life within the spirit crucified,
The
eyes eternal pity thee, thou art
Fated
with deathless powers at war to be,
Not
less the martyr of the world than he
Whose
thorn-crowned brow usurps the due of tears
We
would pay to thee, ever ruddy life,
Whose
passionate peace is still to be at strife,
O'erthrown
but in the unconflicting spheres.
Irish Theosophist, March 15, 1896
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Last update: January 2006
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