WRAPT in fancy by a river,
That flows onward ever, ever,
Down I sat me while the moon
In her fairest vesture shone—
All was still as death, when lo!
Down the solemn tide did flow
Fay’s that once with pleasure thrill’d me,—
Fiends that once with horror chill’d me—
Social Glee and sullen Care,
Lofty Courage, crouching Fear,
And—ah! who with dire Despair?
She on whom my heart has hung,
She who oft my heart has strung,
While the heavy-footed years,
Sought to bury her in cares!
‘One by one, and two by two,
They the graceful, they the true,
Went my idols long ago,
And must thou desert me now?’
Thus I frantically cried,
When a look was cast behind,
Clung—shall cling unto my mind,
And a hollow voice replied;—
‘All things go the way we’re going,
From thy quest refrain—
All, all that be—the Earth, the Sea,
Yon Moon above, the Stars that move
In concord o’er yon crystal plain;
Yea, all to one vast gulph are flowing,
And thy cry’s in vain?’
Heard I aright, what is my cry
A cry in vain? what means reply
So dark as this? Can earth and sky—
Can all my hope, my pride, my joy,
With earth and sky take wing and fly?
Can that for which I’ve daily borne
With insult, empty scoff and scorn,
For which I’ve labour’d still to earn,
‘Till Life itself’s a burden grown—
Can that one day from me be flown?
Can that for which I’ve inly bled,
And tears of blood, not water shed;
For which I’ve lain on thorny bed,
Who else had lain on bed of down—
Can that one day from me be flown?
Can that for which I’ve wooed disgrace—
Look’d Persecution in the face;
For which I’ve barter’d pelf and place,
And donn’d instead the martyr’s crown—
Can that one day from me be flown?
What can the all my soul held dear,
The soul itself and all whate’er
Comprised in this Great Universe
Take wing and never more return?
Can Life itself thus prove a curse,
And mock the mighty souls who yearn
Even to obtain the life superne—
Sung in prophetic verse?
Forbid it Truth!—'It is forbid!’
Rang in my soul as voice e’er did,
A voice whose tone the quester chid;—
‘It is forbid. On facts alone
From battle with externals won,
The common understanding may
Persist another thing to say;
But whose looks Life’s surface under
The Veil of Isis seeks to sunder,
And on internals cares to ponder,
Even such a one will find whate’er
Has been will be, tho’ Earth’s rude sphere
To outer sense should disappear—
Tho’ to that sense, above, below,
All things appear to come and go,
Yet to the inner living still
With dread to chill, with bliss to thrill—
To warn, encourage, pain or charm,
To lead to blessedness, or harm;
To whip or bless us for the act
Another’s heart has soothed or racked;
Yea, all things and all deeds whatever
Shall to the inner sense remain—
Shall constitute a fountain ever
Of what should nerve for high endeavour—
Of what, once drank, should heart and brain,
So fire that Man, would rue ab, never!
That he was born tho’ born to pain—
Thy cry is not in vain.’
Other works by Joseph Skipsey...
