The Undivine Comedy, and Other Poems/Resurrecturis
RESURRECTURIS.
WRITTEN IN 1846.
Amid this slough kneaded with blood and tears,
This world where none his Golgotha avoids,
In vain the spirit struggles when the hand
Of sorrow strikes. Against the storms of life
No port of refuge here is ever found.
At every moment we are mocked by Fate;
The brave engulfed within the dark abyss;
The loved, the saintly, die,—the hated, live;
All eddies in a maze without a clue:
Pale Death is near, and far—so far—away
Across the loitering waves of future ages.
Yet scarcely breaks the Resurrection's dawn.
Must we then grow inert, insensible,
And still the voice of conscience? 'Mid the vile
Grow viler, murder with the murderers,
Lie, hate, blaspheme, and kill? . . . Unto this world
Return the evil it hath wrought on us?
At such price Power is ours,—else wield we none!
Then let us eat and drink, the body sate,
And, chasing from the brain each noble thought,
Swell high the list of fortunate, and fools!
Oh, no! Pause! Pause, my soul! Not with such arms
Can those who guide humanity meet evil!
There is no force but that of sacrifice
Able to crush the fate that crushes us!
It is the sole unconquerable power
In this world's history.
Servility and pride are idle straws
A passing breath may sweep to nothingness.
Oh, learn to know thyself! Seek not to grow
Omnipotent, like Him who is in Heaven!
Ne'er give consent to bend thee like a brute,
Knowing no good save some fat pasture-land!
This side the tomb, ere breaks the distant dawn
Of Resurrection, be thou constant Will,
Immovable though worlds should crash around!
Be tireless Patience which, amid misfortune,
Can slowly rear from naught the edifice,
And which, unshaken by defeat, prepares
The future, certain, final victory!
Be thou Tranquillity amid the storm;
Order in chaos; Harmony in discord;
Amid the eternal combat of this life.
Be thou the eternal Beauty!
For cowards and for Pharisees, be Wrath
And Menace, or the Silence of contempt!
Angelic Inspiration be for men;
The Nourishment that nourishes the heart!
A Sister's Tear be for the suffering;
A Manly Voice, when long-tried courage reels!
For wandering exiles be their Home of Birth;
Be Hope for the despairing, Thunder to wake
The drowsy souls lulled in a corpse's sleep;
Always and everywhere be thou the Force
That reconciles,—the force of Self-devotion,
Stronger than death: and in the unending strife
Against the abyss of this mad world of Hate,
Be thou the Abyss of Love!
Ne'er cease to give
Thyself unto thy brethren under form
Of teaching and example. Still multiply
Thyself by living acts; and thus alone
Thou shalt outweigh thousands of other men!
Even in irons never cease to act!
Learn to bear pain and bitterest agony;
Be thy whole Nation living in thy breast!
Be thou the miracle joins Heaven to earth!
The holy Labarum in slavery!
Haste not toward death, till, like the buried seed,
Thy thought be sown and germing in the hearts
Of thy compatriots; till martyrdom
Shall be the pledge of certain victory!
The crown of false vainglory leave to fools!
The loftiest souls heed not the siren voice.
But when the tocsin of events shall ring
The signal for thy final holocaust
With sad, wild peal,—and from thy native land, —
Kneel down upon the threshold of Eternity!
When deep within thy soul, contrite and humble
Thou hear'st the voice that only comes from God,—
Rise like a strong athlete who wins the goal!
Shake off thy feet the clinging dust of earth!
With infinite love, stretch forth thine arms to Heaven!
Without complaint, wail, inward bitterness,
March forth to meet thine executioners,
Saluting them with inmost, pitying glance
Of immortality!
Thus for the future shall thy sacrifice
A fruitful witness be, and from thy death
Will spring the germ of life for other men!
Those hopes the world deems folly, idle dreams,
Incorporate in actuality,
In faith, in justice, something palpable.
Which, like a probe, shall sink in all men's hearts,
And dwell forever there, although it touch
Them lightly in a breath, a quivering sigh! . . .
And then the world, thy murderer, will kneel
Before thee, and confess that brutal force
Is impotent to strike Country, or God,
From the conscience of the nations!
Behold! the blood that floweth from thy wounds
Hath sanctified thy Thought: that Thought will draw
The dazzling light of God's sure judgment down
From highest heaven upon the impious throng!
And neither troops, nor bayonets, nor lies.
Corruption, kings, nor peoples shall prevail
Against that Thought.
And when the Third Day breaks, above the gulf
Of thy past agonies, and on the tomb
Of thine own martyrdom, shall spring at last
The boon thy Nation long has waited for:
Justice, — the child of God!