THE WIND-CHANT.
The Soul, the inner, immortal Ruler.—Hindu Upanishad.
"Witch-like, see it planets roll,
Hear it from the cradle call—
Nature?—Nature is the soul;
That alone is aught and all.
Grieved or broken though the song,
The fount of music is elate,
For the Soul is ever strong,
For the Soul is ever great."
"For the Soul is ever great!"—
Songless sat I by a grove,
Pines, like funeral priests of state,
Chanted solemn rites above.
Dark and glassy far below,
The River in his proud vale slept,
Eve with olive-shafted bow
Like a stealthy archer crept.
Why, O Masters, then I thought,
Is the mantle yours, of song?
Why with hours like this do not
Glorious strains to all belong?
Why all choosing, why all ban?
Why are lords, and why are slaves
And the most of gentle man
Clipt and harried to their graves?
Foiled and ruined, masses die
That one fair and noble be.
Why are all not Masters? Why
So unjust is Life's decree?
Why are poor and why are rich?
Why are slaves and why are lords?
Unto this the splendid niche:
Those caste damneth in their words.
Do not powers of evil reign?
Do not flashes' storms make dread?
Should not He of Life again
Bring the just peace of the dead?
Oft the Pines, like priests of state,
Have spoke the heavenly word to man;
So above me as I sate
Æol voices chanting ran:
"For the Soul is ever great
For the Soul is ever strong;
In the murmurer it can wait—
In the shortest sight see long.
"Not a yearning but is proof
Thou art yet its aim to own:
Thou the warp art and the woof,
Not the woof or warp alone.
Couldst thou drop the lead within
To the bottom of thyself,
All the World—and God—and Sin—
And Force—and Ages—were that Elf.
"With thy breathing goes all breath,
With thy striving goes all strife,
In thy being, deep as death,
Lies the largeness of all life.
The world is but thy deepest wish,
The phases thereof are thy dream;
They that hunt or plough or fish
Are of thee the out-turned seam.
"Helpless, thou hast every power,
In thee greatness perfect sleeps—
And thou comest to thy dower,
And thy strength perennial keeps.
Stir the Aeol harp elate!
Make a triumph of its song,
For the Soul is ever great,
For the Soul is ever strong!"
Rushings cool as of a breeze
Amened to their litany;
In their pure sky smiled the trees;
And no more was mystery.
Clear I saw the Soul at work,
All through fair Saint Francis vale,
Beauty-making; like a dirk
Peering bright amid the mail.
Vital the dark River wound,
Glassy in his cool repose;
Many a bird-like country, sound
As the Soul-voice upward rose.
Then as in a glass I knew
I was vale and town and stream,
Shadowed grove and northern blue
And the stars that 'gan to gleam.
This was I, and all was mine.
Mine—yea, ours—the grace and might,
With the lordship of a line
That laughs at any earthly knight.
Ah, what music then I heard!
What conceptions then I saw!
Master-thoughts within me stirred,
And there flashed the Master-law.
Next them did the greatest shapes
Of Angelo crowd in a dream:—
Vain the grace that marble drapes;
A village mason's these did seem.
But—the light from Angelo's eye
That so deeply eager burns
With its fierce sincerity!—
Ah, the ancient saw returns:
"Greater artist than his art;"
Meaning: greater yet than he
Is the vast outfeeling Heart
In him lying like the sea.
With a sudden eagle-stroke
How this truth can lift one wide.
Then he sees the sublime joke
Of humility and pride;
For the Soul is ever great,
The one Soul within us all:
One the tone that shakes a state
With the helpless cradle-call.
Yes, that wonder of the Soul
Is the riddle of it all,
And the answer, and the whole,
Bright with joy that rends the pall.
Brother-man, I pray you stand,
Hear a minstrel; but the song
If you do not understand,
Pass and do not do it wrong.