Eidolon; or, The Course of a Soul; and Other Poems

by Walter Richard Cassels

[A] The principal mountain of Cyprus was thus named.

PART II.
The Worker.

Forth went he from the ebb and flow of men,
Whose busy vortex drowneth quiet thought,
To hold communion with wise Nature's soul
In solitude. Amongst lone woods he roamed,
Listing the murmurs of the swaying boughs
That quivered with the spirit of the breeze,
Threading their archëd aisles with solemn heart,
And hiving in his soul a myriad thoughts
That fell unseen upon him. Oft he stood
On mountain fronts, and gazed long hours away,
Tracing the sweep of hill and dale, now veined
With glistening waters, and now dark with groves,
Still changing till sight lost identity,
And the ideal and the real met.
He saw the sun enter the golden gates
Of Night, that closed upon his radiant path,
And left Earth wondering; and star by star
Unlid their shining orbs, and o'er heaven's plain
Wheel their bright cars to greet him in the East.
He saw the morn break beautiful and pure,
Like virgin from her slumbers, and robe earth
In dewy brightness, cresting the far hills
With glorious halos of oncoming day.
All loveliness of earth and sky he sought,
And pondered with a heart attent to learn,
Knowing that Beauty, like a parent stream,
Is nourished by each trickling rill that flows
Into it; and the soul that would be apt
To work its highest counsels out, must toil
Through long apprentice-ship to mastery,
By units gath'ring fitness for the whole.

Thus did he, till with spirit brimming up
With glorious inspiration, he returned,
And set the god-like in him to create;
His swelling soul grew patient to the work,
Wise with the sense of innate potency,
And on the shapeless marble still he wrought
With faith and firm assurance.
Many came
Amid their aimless wanderings, and stood
Beside that quiet worker, wondering
At the majestic purpose on his brow,
And vapouring forth their self-important views,
That turned his course as little as the air
Swerveth the eagle in his lightning flight.
Many applauded with patronic warmth
And empty commendation, and no scorn
Curled his proud lip, not one defiant word
Echoed their nothings into transient life.
But as the marble grew beneath his hands
To shape and comeliness, his soul-deep eyes
Flashed with the joy of high accomplishment,
And scanned each valiant critic with a glance
That sifted all his littleness away.

Thus did he till his work stood perfected,
A woman beautiful with youth and grace,
But like a Vestal singled from her sex
To show the beauty of pure innocence.
Her form was such as rapt Endymion
Saw on the heights of Latmos when he slept
And dreamed Heaven down to him. A glorious shape
That to the brightness of ethereal charms
Join'd the familiar sweetness of a maid;
A soft clear forehead circled by the light
That heaven sets lambent on its imaged self;
A face that beaming on the heart of man
As by a silent teaching in the sense
Makes goodness natural. Upon each limb
Grace laid its sweet commandment lovingly,
Whilst the fair bosom glowed with tenderness,
As from the fulness of a soul beneath,
Woman's divinest attribute possessed
Unsullied and entire; and through the frame
And every feature radiating went
A lovely sense of gentleness and love.

Bright is the summer of Cyprus,
Undimm'd the skies and clear,
Blue and clear as a maiden's eyes
That loves and hath never felt sadness.
Then, Time is a sunlit river
Flowing 'mid flowers and green pastures
Brightly onward to heaven!
There is music pervading the air,
Music of voice and of instrument,
And the silver toning of laughters
Blendeth in jubilant chorus;
Bands of maidens and youths
With flowing garments of purple,
And zones jewelled and bright
As the mystic girdle of Venus,
Wreathëd with myrtle and roses,
And their beauty wantonly bared
To the swimming glances of passion,
Evermore sweep o'er the pathways,
Strewing sweet flowers as they go
To the sacred altars of Venus
'Neath the feet of the snow-white kine,
That must bleed at the shrine of the goddess;
Care is forgotten, for life
Hath no aim and no mission but pleasure;
Its cup is a foretaste of Paradise,
Drain the sweet draught to the dregs,
The fountain will flow on for ever!
'Tis the feast day of Venus—Hail! Hail!

Pygmalion stood beside his master-piece,
Still with his mind devote to mighty thoughts
And busy inspiration, for through Time
The worker must be constant to his toil,
Heedless of pleasure and the idle toys
For which man bartereth eternity;
Life is his seed-time, after life his rest.
Had he not joyed to scan that lovely form,
And mark each glorious lineament, that held
A model up to Nature of pure grace
Unblemished by the shadow of a fault?
Had he not loved with more than Artist soul
The beauteous creature of his heaven-drawn power,
And oped again the flood-gates of his heart
To the full current of humanity?
Had he not thanked the gods for victory,
And gloried in his strength with conscious might
That made e'en fame his fellow? Yet he stood
Silent and sad beside his finished work.
What lacked he yet? Life! life! for his creation:
"What have I wrought," he uttered, "what achieved?
Naught! naught! my power hath wasted on a stone,
Changed its rude seeming haply unto grace,
But as it was, so is it now, mere stone;
My beauteous image, emblem of my soul,
Cast in the mould of thought's supremest good,
Fairer than all of womankind on Earth,
Is yet more worthless and more transient
Than is the meanest wretch who feels the life
Throb quenchlessly within him. Time may strew
Its fragments blindly o'er the face of Earth,
Scatter its spotless beauties, yet pass on
And leave the world no poorer than it was.
There is no beauty separate from soul;
From it as from a spring flow all the streams
That clothe this dust with living loveliness
Else doomed to deep aridity and death.
O lovely daughter of my craving soul!
Hope of my life! Divinest shape of Earth!
Can I regard thy beauty thus and know
Thou art the empty semblance of a worthless thing.
Are those sweet charms where loveliness hath set
The limits of her potency, mere dust
Unnobled by the passage of a soul,
Rescued a moment from the senseless mass,
That soon again shall have thee for its own?
What hath my soul begotten? Death in life—
A child of Earth unblessed, unstamped of heaven.
First-fruit of Spirit love! is this thy fate?
Gods! hear me from your thrones! Must it be so?"
Forth sped he.
Like a stream that is swayed in the sunlight,
Breaking in flashes of brightness,
The people of Cyprus were gathered
Around the temple of Venus;
Mirth and music ascended.
Amid the fumes of the incense,
Loud as when pleasure hath knocked
On a heart that is hollow and empty.
Maidens rejoiced in their shame,
And fancied their lewdness devotion,
Banishing thought from their bosoms,
And making them giddy with passion.
Men forgetting their birthright,
And the glorious spirit of freedom,
Made themselves slaves unto folly,
And lust, and imbecile pleasure.
Life was summed up in the Present,
For foolishness knoweth no Future.

Through the deluded mass Pygmalion prest,
As each true soul must on its course to Fame,
Blind to the follies that beset his path,
The empty pleasures, and fictitious joys;
Deaf to the jeers and mockings of the crowd,
Their sottish laughters and unmeaning mirth,
His senses all attent to his great aim,
Fixed on the prize of immortality.
Within the Temple separate he stood
From the base host of giddy worshippers,
And prostrated his soul with strong desire
At the bright shrine of Cytherea's power.

"O Cypris! goddess! Light of heaven and Earth!
That from the snow-crest of the waving sea,
The endless worker—the unresting soul,
Sprang'st in the glory of thy charms divine,
And Beauty mad'st immortal! That dost hold
The sacred urn of everlasting love,
Whose draught is life, strength, rapture to the soul,
And pouring of its fulness o'er the Earth,
Makest its drooping energies revive,
To struggle onward through the fight of life!
O thou divinest arbitress of fate!
Stoop from thy starry throne, receive my prayer,
And grant me life, breath, being for my work.
Let not the love that glorifies a man,
Sink 'neath the level of humanity,
And take unto its Holiest a shape
Of woman's dust engraven on a stone;
Grant that this first-fruit of my soul may be
Endued with lovely immortality;
That she may have the throbbing pulse of life,
Quick'ning with every gracious influence,
To work some sweet seraphic Purpose out,
And walking 'mongst Earth's multitudes exalt
Man's soul to worship Beauty, that when I
The Worker shall have gone unto my rest,
A glorious witness may remain to tell
That such an one wrought, struggled and attained."