Songs Unsung

by Lewis Morris

In the expiring days
Of the old heathen ages lived the man
Who bore it first. The elder Pagan gods
Were paling now, and from the darkling groves
And hollow aisles of their resounding fanes
The thin shapes fled for ever. A new God
Awoke the souls of men; and yet the shrines
Of Aphrodité and of Phoebus still
Drew their own votaries. The flower of faith,
Plucked from its roots, and thrown aside to die,
Is slow to wither, keeping some thin ghost
And counterfeit of fairness, though the life
Has fled for ever, and 'twas a dead thing
To which the Pagan bowed.

In the far East
He served, a soldier. Nature, which so oft
Is grudging of her blessings—mating now
The sluggish brain and stalwart form, and now
Upon the cripple's limbs setting the crown
Of godlike wisdom—gave with generous hand
Beauty and force to this one, mighty limbs
And giant strength, joined with the choicer gift
Of thoughts which soar, and will which dares, and high
Ambition which aspires and is fulfilled
In riches and in honour.

Every year
Of prosperous manhood left him greater grown
And mightier. Evermore the siren voice
Of high adventure called o'er land and sea;
The magical voice, heard but by nobler souls,
Which dulls all lower music. More than king
This great knight-errant showed; a king of men
Who still before his strong eyes day and night
Saw power shining star-like on the hills,
And set his face to gain it. Luxury
Held him nor sensual ease who was too great
For silken fetters, a strong soul and hand
Bent to a higher end than theirs, and touched
To higher issues; a fair beacon set
Upon a lordly hill above the marsh
Of common life, but all the more laid bare
To the beating of the whirlwind.

Every soul
Knows its particular weakness: so for him
This great strong soul set in its pride of place;
The charm of Power worked like a spell; high power
Unchecked, untrammelled, fixed with none to rule
Above it, this could bend the nobler soul
Which naught might conquer. Over land and sea,
Hiring his mighty arm and strength, he fared
To sovereign after sovereign, always seeking
A stronger than the last: until at length
He found a puissant prince, so high, so great,
The strong sway held him, and he lived content
A sleeping soul, not knowing good or ill,
Resting in act, and with it satisfied—
A careless striving soul who sought no more.

But midst the miry ways of this sad world,
As now he fared unmoved, the frequent sight
Of evil; the blind rage which takes and sways
The warrior after battle till he quench
His thirst in blood and torture; the great pain
Which everywhere cries heavenward, every day
With unregarded suffrage; the foul wrongs
Which are done on earth for ever; the dark sins
Sinned and yet unrequited; the great sum
And mystery of Evil, worked on him
Not to allure, not to repel, but only
With that strange spell of power which knows to take
The strong soul captive. Here was power enough,
Mightier than mortal strength. The greatest king
Whom ever he had served compared with this
Showed puny as a child; this power which took
The mightiest in chains, now forcing them
To wrong and blood and ill, now binding them
With adamant chains within the sensual sty
Where they lay bound for ever. Here was force
To limit Heaven itself. So this strong soul
Bowed to it, taking Evil for his lord,
A voluntary thrall. Yet not to him
The smooth foul ways of sense, the paths of wrong,
Brought pleasure of themselves; only to know
The unrestrainèd passion surge, a beat
Of satisfied life, the glory and the glow
Of full untempered being. And so long time
He served the Lord of Evil: deeds of wrong
And anger, deeds of soft and sensual sin,
All these he knew, a careless satisfied soul,
So that for dread of him men named his name
"The unrighteous;" but he cared not: power and fame
Sufficed him long, and hid from him the fashion
Of his own life and by what perilous ways
He walked, and by what fathomless black seas,
Abysmal deeps, and treacherous gulphs of Ill.

Till one day as they wandered (so the tale)
Through a thick wood whence came no gleam of light
To break the ghostly shadows—with amaze
He saw his master the great Lord of Ill
Cower down as from a blow and hide his eyes
From some white ghostly figure. As he gazed
The old chains fell from him, and with a glance
He rose up free for ever. For his soul
Met that great symbol of all sacrifice
Which men have worshipped since; the soft sad eyes,
The agonised limbs nailed to the Tree of Death
Which is the Tree of Life; and all the past
Fell from him, and the mystery of Love
And Death and Evil; Might which gives itself
To liberate the world and dying breaks
The vanquished strength of Hell; all these transformed
His very being, and straightway the strong soul,
Spurning his ancient chain, stood fair and free
Alone, a moment with the scars of gyves
Upon his neck and limbs, and then fell down
Prostrate upon the earth, the mild eyes still
Bent on him pitiful. There he lay stretched
Through the long night of sorrow, till at last
The sun rose on his soul, and on the earth,
And the pure dawn returning brought the day.

And when he rose the ancient mastery
And thirst for power, springing anew in him,
Once more, resistless, over land and sea
Impelled him, seeking this new mightier Lord
Who broke the power of Ill. So through all lands
He passed, a passionate pilgrim, but found not
The Prince he sought, only great princes, strong
And valorous he found, who bowed them down
Before the power of Evil; but for them
He took no thought, who had seen their master blench
Before the Lord of Light; but him indeed
He saw not yet; filled with the pride of life,
A satisfied soul which bowed not down to wrong,
Touched with desire for good, since good was strong,
But loving strength alone.

So as he fared
He came upon a dark and stony land
Where smiled no flower; there, in a humble cell,
There dwelt an aged man; no other thing
Of life was there, only wan age, which dwelt
Upon the brink of death. The giant strength
Was flagging now, while on the distant hills
The sun was sinking and the gray of night
Stole upward. Through the plain beneath the cell
A broad black river raged, where was no bridge
For travellers; but a dark road stole to it
O'ergloomed by cypress, and no boat was there
Nor ferry, evermore beyond the shade
Breast-high the strong stream roared by black as death.

There sate he on the brink and saw no soul
As he gazed on the stream of death. Great misery
And weakness took him, and he laid him down
On that cold strand. Till, when his heart beat slow
And his life drooped, lo! on the further shore
The sunset, lingering for a moment, fired
A thousand palace windows and the spires
And domes of a fair city; then the night
Fell downward on them, but the unconquered soul
Within the failing body leaped and knew
That it had seen the city of the King.

Then swooned he for awhile, and when he knew
His life again he heard a reverend voice
Speak through the gloom. And all the sun had set
And all the hills were hidden.