Read Ebook: Songs of Two Nations by Swinburne Algernon Charles

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EPODE

DIRAE

Guai a voi, anime prave. Dante.

Soyez maudits, d'abord d'?tre ce que vous ?tes, Et puis soyez maudits d'obs?der les po?tes! Victor Hugo.

A DEAD KING

Go down to hell. This end is good to see; The breath is lightened and the sense at ease Because thou art not; sense nor breath there is In what thy body was, whose soul shall be Chief nerve of hell's pained heart eternally. Thou art abolished from the midst of these That are what thou wast: Pius from his knees Blows off the dust that flecked them, bowed for thee. Yea, now the long-tongued slack-lipped litanies Fail, and the priest has no more prayer to sell-- Now the last Jesuit found about thee is The beast that made thy fouler flesh his cell-- Time lays his finger on thee, saying, "Cease; Here is no room for thee; go down to hell."

A YEAR AFTER

If blood throbs yet in this that was thy face, O thou whose soul was full of devil's faith, If in thy flesh the worm's bite slackeneth In some acute red pause of iron days, Arise now, gird thee, get thee on thy ways, Breathe off the worm that crawls and fears not breath; King, it may be thou shalt prevail on death; King, it may be thy soul shall find out grace. O spirit that hast eased the place of Cain, Weep now and howl, yea weep now sore; for this That was thy kingdom hath spat out its king. Wilt thou plead now with God? behold again, Thy prayer for thy son's sake is turned to a hiss, Thy mouth to a snake's whose slime outlives the sting,

PETER'S PENCE FROM PERUGIA

Iscariot, thou grey-grown beast of blood, Stand forth to plead; stand, while red drops run here And there down fingers shaken with foul fear, Down the sick shivering chin that stooped and sued, Bowed to the bosom, for a little food At Herod's hand, who smites thee cheek and ear. Cry out, Iscariot; haply he will hear; Cry, till he turn again to do thee good. Gather thy gold up, Judas, all thy gold, And buy thee death; no Christ is here to sell, But the dead earth of poor men bought and sold, While year heaps year above thee safe in hell, To grime thy grey dishonourable head With dusty shame, when thou art damned and dead.

PAPAL ALLOCUTION

"Popule mi, quid tibi feci?"

What hast thou done? Hark, till thine ears wax hot, Judas; for these and these things hast thou done. Thou hast made earth faint, and sickened the sweet sun, With fume of blood that reeks from limbs that rot; Thou hast washed thine hands and mouth, saying, "Am I not Clean?" and thy lips were bloody, and there was none To speak for man against thee, no, not one; This hast thou done to us, Iscariot. Therefore, though thou be deaf and heaven be dumb, A cry shall be from under to proclaim In the ears of all who shed men's blood or sell Pius the Ninth, Judas the Second, come Where Boniface out of the filth and flame Barks for his advent in the clefts of hell.

Dante, "Inferno," xix. 53.

THE BURDEN OF AUSTRIA

O daughter of pride, wasted with misery, With all the glory that thy shame put on Stripped off thy shame, O daughter of Babylon, Yea, whoso be it, yea, happy shall he be That as thou hast served us hath rewarded thee. Blessed, who throweth against war's boundary stone Thy warrior brood, and breaketh bone by bone Misrule thy son, thy daughter Tyranny. That landmark shalt thou not remove for shame, But sitting down there in a widow's weed Wail; for what fruit is now of thy red fame? Have thy sons too and daughters learnt indeed What thing it is to weep, what thing to bleed? Is it not thou that now art but a name?

"A geographical expression."--Metternich of Italy.

LOCUSTA

Come close and see her and hearken. This is she. Stop the ways fast against the stench that nips Your nostril as it nears her. Lo, the lips That between prayer and prayer find time to be Poisonous, the hands holding a cup and key, Key of deep hell, cup whence blood reeks and drips; The loose lewd limbs, the reeling hingeless hips, The scurf that is not skin but leprosy. This haggard harlot grey of face and green With the old hand's cunning mixes her new priest The cup she mixed her Nero, stirred and spiced. She lisps of Mary and Jesus Nazarene With a tongue tuned, and head that bends to the east, Praying. There are who say she is bride of Christ.

CELAENO

The blind king hides his weeping eyeless head, Sick with the helpless hate and shame and awe, Till food have choked the glutted hell-bird's craw And the foul cropful creature lie as dead And soil itself with sleep and too much bread: So the man's life serves under the beast's law, And things whose spirit lives in mouth and maw Share shrieking the soul's board and soil her bed, Till man's blind spirit, their sick slave, resign Its kingdom to the priests whose souls are swine, And the scourged serf lie reddening from their rod, Discrowned, disrobed, dismantled, with lost eyes Seeking where lurks in what conjectural skies That triple-headed hound of hell their God.

A CHOICE

Faith is the spirit that makes man's body and blood Sacred, to crown when life and death have ceased His heavenward head for high fame's holy feast; But as one swordstroke swift as wizard's rod Made Caesar carrion and made Brutus God, Faith false or true, born patriot or born priest, Smites into semblance or of man or beast The soul that feeds on clean or unclean food. Lo here the faith that lives on its own light, Visible music; and lo there, the foul Shape without shape, the harpy throat and howl. Sword of the spirit of man! arise and smite, And sheer through throat and claw and maw and tongue Kill the beast faith that lives on its own dung.

THE AUGURS

Lay the corpse out on the altar; bid the elect Slaves clear the ways of service spiritual, Sweep clean the stalled soul's serviceable stall, Ere the chief priest's dismantling hands detect The ulcerous flesh of faith all scaled and specked Beneath the bandages that hid it all, And with sharp edgetools oecumenical The leprous carcases of creeds dissect. As on the night ere Brutus grew divine The sick-souled augurs found their ox or swine Heartless; so now too by their after art In the same Rome, at an uncleaner shrine, Limb from rank limb, and putrid part from part, They carve the corpse--a beast without a heart.

A COUNSEL

O strong Republic of the nobler years Whose white feet shine beside time's fairer flood That shall flow on the clearer for our blood Now shed, and the less brackish for our tears; When time and truth have put out hopes and fears With certitude, and love has burst the bud, If these whose powers then down the wind shall scud Still live to feel thee smite their eyes and ears, When thy foot's tread hath crushed their crowns and creeds, Care thou not then to crush the beast that bleeds, The snake whose belly cleaveth to the sod, Nor set thine heel on men as on their deeds; But let the worm Napoleon crawl untrod, Nor grant Mastai the gallows of his God.

THE MODERATES

She stood before her traitors bound and bare, Clothed with her wounds and with her naked shame As with a weed of fiery tears and flame, Their mother-land, their common weal and care, And they turned from her and denied, and sware They did not know this woman nor her name. And they took truce with tyrants and grew tame, And gathered up cast crowns and creeds to wear, And rags and shards regilded. Then she took In her bruised hands their broken pledge, and eyed These men so late so loud upon her side With one inevitable and tearless look, That they might see her face whom they forsook; And they beheld what they had left, and died.

February 1870.

INTERCESSION

O Death, a little more, and then the worm; A little longer, O Death, a little yet, Before the grave gape and the grave-worm fret; Before the sanguine-spotted hand infirm Be rottenness, and that foul brain, the germ Of all ill things and thoughts, be stopped and set; A little while, O Death, ere he forget, A small space more of life, a little term; A little longer ere he and thou be met, Ere in that hand that fed thee to thy mind The poison-cup of life be overset; A little respite of disastrous breath, Till the soul lift up her lost eyes, and find Nor God nor help nor hope, but thee, O Death.

Shall a man die before his dying day, Death? and for him though the utter day be nigh, Not yet, not yet we give him leave to die; We give him grace not yet that men should say He is dead, wiped out, perished and past away. Till the last bitterness of life go by, Thou shalt not slay him; till those last dregs run dry, O thou last lord of life! thou shalt not slay. Let the lips live a little while and lie, The hand a little, and falter, and fail of strength, And the soul shudder and sicken at the sky; Yea, let him live, though God nor man would let Save for the curse' sake; then at bitter length, Lord, will we yield him to thee, but not yet.

Hath he not deeds to do and days to see Yet ere the day that is to see him dead? Beats there no brain yet in the poisonous head, Throbs there no treason? if no such thing there be, If no such thought, surely this is not he. Look to the hands then; are the hands not red? What are the shadows about this man's bed? Death, was not this the cupbearer to thee? Nay, let him live then, till in this life's stead Even he shall pray for that thou hast to give; Till seeing his hopes and not his memories fled Even he shall cry upon thee a bitter cry, That life is worse than death; then let him live, Till death seem worse than life; then let him die.

O watcher at the guardless gate of kings, O doorkeeper that serving at their feast Hast in thine hand their doomsday drink, and seest With eyeless sight the soul of unseen things; Thou in whose ear the dumb time coming sings, Death, priest and king that makest of king and priest A name, a dream, a less thing than the least, Hover awhile above him with closed wings, Till the coiled soul, an evil snake-shaped beast, Eat its base bodily lair of flesh away; If haply, or ever its cursed life have ceased, Or ever thy cold hands cover his head From sight of France and freedom and broad day, He may see these and wither and be dead.

Paris: September 1869.

THE SAVIOUR OF SOCIETY

O son of man, but of what man who knows? That broughtest healing on thy leathern wings To priests, and under them didst gather kings, And madest friends to thee of all man's foes; Before thine incarnation, the tale goes, Thy virgin mother, pure of sensual stings, Communed by night with angels of chaste things, And, full of grace, untimely felt the throes Of motherhood upon her, and believed The obscure annunciation made when late A raven-feathered raven-throated dove Croaked salutation to the mother of love Whose misconception was immaculate, And when her time was come she misconceived.

Thine incarnation was upon this wise, Saviour; and out of east and west were led To thy foul cradle by thy planet red Shepherds of souls that feed their sheep with lies Till the utter soul die as the body dies, And the wise men that ask but to be fed Though the hot shambles be their board and bed And sleep on any dunghill shut their eyes, So they lie warm and fatten in the mire: And the high priest enthroned yet in thy name, Judas, baptised thee with men's blood for hire; And now thou hangest nailed to thine own shame In sight of all time, but while heaven has flame Shalt find no resurrection from hell-fire.

December 1869.

MENTANA: SECOND ANNIVERSARY

Est-ce qu'il n'est pas temps que la foudre se prouve, Cieux profonds, en broyant ce chien, fils de la louve? La L?gende des Si?cles:--Ratbert.

MENTANA: THIRD ANNIVERSARY

Such prayers last year were put up for thy sake; What shall this year do that hath lived to see The piteous and unpitied end of thee? What moan, what cry, what clamour shall it make, Seeing as a reed breaks all thine empire break, And all thy great strength as a rotten tree, Whose branches made broad night from sea to sea, And the world shuddered when a leaf would shake? From the unknown deep wherein those prayers were heard, From the dark height of time there sounds a word, Crying, Comfort; though death ride on this red hour, Hope waits with eyes that make the morning dim, Till liberty, reclothed with love and power, Shall pass and know not if she tread on him.

The hour for which men hungered and had thirst, And dying were loth to die before it came, Is it indeed upon thee? and the lame Late foot of vengeance on thy trace accurst For years insepulchred and crimes inhearsed, For days marked red or black with blood or shame, Hath it outrun thee to tread out thy name? This scourge, this hour, is this indeed the worst? O clothed and crowned with curses, canst thou tell? Have thy dead whispered to thee what they see Whose eyes are open in the dark on thee Ere spotted soul and body take farewell Or what of life beyond the worm's may be Satiate the immitigable hours in hell?

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