Читать книгу The Rosary of Pan - Alexander Maitland Stephen - Страница 11

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THE Wanderer am I, outcast of the starry ways,

Self-doomed through devious infinite paths

And twice ten million human years to seek

That which is I. From mine own self divorced,

Desolate, I strive to find my heart’s desire.

Not in the radiant realms of bliss immutable,

Devoid of form that dims the spirit’s light

Shall I find Thee, mine own immortal Love.

The roseate splendour of that undimmed flame

Shed from the altar of the primal sacrifice

In matter’s mystic veil is clothed and hidden.

Through ages vast, in myriad ways, I sought thy face.

In rocky adamant, in plant and beast and bird—

In rubies, blood from the gentle bosom of the Earth,

I found Thee prisoned for a passing age.

I felt Thee call me in the crimson rose. Curves

Tender folded thy beauty in a golden shrine.

Thy petalled lips were mine. Thy fragrance

Warm and sweet thrilled through my branches. Breezes,

Soft harbingers of love, wafted my gold to thee.

Thy lissome strength sprang forth, a leaping pard,

A red-gold flame that flashed through tropic glades.

I knew Thee then, beneath soft summer moons,

My royal mate, untamed and swift. Then came

The glorious hour when clay immortalized was Man—

Fit temple of the living God, and Spirit first

Was clothed in flesh. The cyclic fruit of Time

Stood naked, gleaming, white, a palace fair

With marbled columns, crowned with sculptured grace—

A glittering symbol of the starry worlds—

A Universe enthralled in mortal form—presage

Of futures dim and vast when Time shall cease.

Thy beauty drew me, Wanderer, forth to find

Thee, waking or asleep. Life after life, my quest

On land and sea, in storm or strife was still to win

The golden gift thy hand alone can give—

The knowledge of mine own divine estate.

The lean, gray years, striving with shadowy things,

With phantom fears that poison soul and sense

Were all for Thee, God meshed in human form.

The virus priests have bred, the subtle skein

Of thought, philosophers have spun to tangle

Human flies, strove with Satanic force to bind me

Hand and feet—to veil thy glory from my hungry eyes.

Through perils vast, on land or sea, in worlds unseen,

My warrior soul sought ever for thy light.

Time was, when wandering far from Thee,

In mystic lore, in parchment pale and dusty tomes,

In liturgies and cloistered cell, I lost my Self.

My soul was reft from me and pallid Gods

Were mine. Thy shrine was desecrate. Ashes gray

On thy altar quenched the roseate flame of life.

And yet, O flamen of the Gods of Greece, who built

The morning stars, placing a song forever in the heart

Of Pain, I know Thee now again, thy mysteries

Invite once more my worship. Red flames of passions past,

Embers in the ashes of dead loves and lives,

Leap from thine altar. The white, chaste marbles

Of the Temple glow with living light and Lo!

The Red Gods laugh and fling a wine-red rose

To Earth—Joy, Dionysian reigns re-born—

The New Age dawns and Love and Life are one.

I, Wanderer, outcast of Fate, my goal draw nigh

And know Myself in knowing Love and Thee.