In a far Eastern countryIt happened long of yore,Where a lone and level sunriseFlushes the desert floor,That three kings sat togetherAnd a spearman kept the door.
Caspar, whose wealth was countedBy city and caravan;With Melchior, the seerWho read the starry plan;And Balthasar, the blameless,Who loved his fellow man.
There while they talked, a suddenStrange rushing sound arose,And as with startled facesThey thought upon their foes,Three figures stood before themIn imperial repose.
One in flame-gold and one in blueAnd one in scarlet clear,With the almighty portentOf sunrise they drew near!And the kings made obeisanceWith hand on breast, in fear.
"Arise," said they, "we bring youGood tidings of great peace!To-day a power is wakenedWhose working must increase,Till fear and greed and maliceAnd violence shall cease."
The messengers were Michael,By whom all things are wroughtTo shape and hue; and GabrielWho is the lord of thought;And Rafael without whose loveAll toil must come to nought.
Then Rafael said to Balthasar,"In a country west from hereA lord is born in lowliness,In love without a peer.Take grievances and gifts to himAnd prove his kingship clear!
"By this sign ye shall know him;Within his mother's armAmong the sweet-breathed cattleHe slumbers without harm,While wicked hearts are troubledAnd tyrants take alarm."
And Gabriel said to Melchior,"My comrade, I will sendMy star to go before you,That ye may comprehendWhere leads your mystic learningIn a humaner trend."
And Michael said to Gaspar,"Thou royal builder, goWith tribute of thy riches!Though time shall overthrowThy kingdom, no undoingHis gentle might shall know."
Then while the kings' hearts greatenedAnd all the chamber shone,As when the hills at sundownTake a new glory onAnd the air thrills with purple,Their visitors were gone.
Then straightway up rose Gaspar,Melchior and Balthasar,And passed out through the murmurOf palace and bazar,To make without misgivingThe journey of the Star.
The word of the Lord of the outer worldsWent forth on the deeps of space,That Michael, Gabriel, Rafael,Should stand before his face,The seraphs of his threefold will,Each in his ordered place.
Brave Michael, the right hand of God,Strong Gabriel, his voice,Fair Rafael, his holy breathThat makes the world rejoice,—Archangels of omnipotence,Of knowledge, and of choice;
Michael, angel of lovelinessIn all things that survive,And Gabriel, whose part it isTo ponder and contrive,And Rafael, who puts the heartIn every thing alive.
Came Rafael, the enraptured soul,Stainless as wind or fire,The urge within the flux of things,The life that must aspire,With whom is the beginning,The worth, and the desire;
And Gabriel, the all-seeing mind,Bringer of truth and light,Who lays the courses of the starsIn their stupendous flight,And calls the migrant flocks of springAcross the purple night;
And Michael, the artificerOf beauty, shape, and hue,Lord of the forges of the sun,The crucible of the dew,And driver of the plowing rainWhen the flowers are born anew.
Then said the Lord: "Ye shall accountFor the ministry ye hold,Since ye have been my sons to keepMy purpose from of old.How fare the realms within your swayTo perfections still untold?"
Answered each as he had the word.And a great silence fellOn all the listening hosts of heavenTo hear their captains tell,—With the breath of the wind, the call of a bird.And the cry of a mighty bell.
Then the Lord said: "The time is ripeFor finishing my plan,And the accomplishment of thatFor which all time began.Therefore on you is laid the taskOf the fashioning of man;
"In your own likeness shall he be,To triumph in the end.I only give him Michael's strengthTo guard him and defend,With Gabriel to be his guide,And Rafael his friend.
"Ye shall go forth upon the earth,And make there Paradise,And be the angels of that placeTo make men glad and wise,With loving-kindness in their hearts,And knowledge in their eyes.
"And ye shall be man's counsellorsThat neither rest nor sleep,To cheer the lonely, lift the frail,And solace them that weep.And ever on his wandering trailYour watch-fires ye shall keep;
"Till in the far years he shall findThe country of his quest,The empire of the open truth,The vision of the best,Foreseen by every mother saintWith her new-born on her breast."
First all the host of RaphaelIn liveries of gold,Lifted the chorus on whose rhythmThe spinning spheres are rolled,—The Seraphs of the morning calmWhose hearts are never cold.
He shall be born a spirit,Part of the soul that yearns,The core of vital gladnessThat suffers and discerns,The stir that breaks the budding sheathWhen the green spring returns,—
The gist of power and patienceHid in the plasmic clay,The calm behind the senses,The passionate essayTo make his wise and lovely dreamImmortal on a day.
The soft, Aprilian ardorsThat warm the waiting loamShall whisper in his pulsesTo bid him overcome,And he shall learn the wonder-cryBeneath the azure dome.
And though all-dying natureShould teach him to deplore,The ruddy fires of autumnShall lure him but the moreTo pass from joy to stronger joy,As through an open door.
He shall have hope and honor,Proud trust and courage stark,To hold him to his purposeThrough the unlighted dark,And love that sees the moon's full orbIn the first silver arc.
And he shall live by kindnessAnd the heart's certitude,Which moves without misgivingIn ways not understood,Sure only of the vast event,—The large and simple good.
Then Gabriel's host in silver gearAnd vesture twilight blue,The spirits of immortal mind,The warders of the true,Took up the theme that gives the worldSignificance anew.
He shall be born to reason,And have the primal needTo understand and followWherever truth may lead,—To grow in wisdom like a treeUnfolding from a seed.
A watcher by the sheepfolds,With wonder in his eyes,He shall behold the seasons,And mark the planets rise,Till all the marching firmamentShall rouse his vast surmise.
Beyond the sweep of vision,Or utmost reach of sound,This cunning fire-maker,This tiller of the ground,Shall learn the secrets of the sunsAnd fathom the profound.
For he must prove all beingSane, beauteous, benign,And at the heart of natureDiscover the divine,—Himself the type and symbolOf the eternal trine.
He shall perceive the kindlingOf knowledge, far and dim,As of the fire that brightensBelow the dark sea-rim,When ray by ray the splendid sunFloats to the world's wide brim.
And out of primal instinct,The lore of lair and den,He shall emerge to questionHow, wherefore, whence, and when,Till the last frontier of the truthShall lie within his ken.
Then Michael's scarlet-suited hostTook up the word and sang;As though a trumpet had been loosedIn heaven, the arches rang;For these were they who feel the thrillOf beauty like a pang.
He shall be framed and balancedFor loveliness and power,Lithe as the supple creatures,And colored as a flower,Sustained by the all-feeding earth,Nurtured by wind and shower,
To stand within the vortexWhere surging forces play,A poised and pliant figureImmutable as they,Till time and space and energySurrenders to his sway.
He shall be free to journeyOver the teeming earth,An insatiable seeker,A wanderer from his birth,Clothed in the fragile veil of sense,With fortitude for girth.
His hands shall have dominionOf all created things,To fashion in the likenessOf his imaginings,To make his will and thought surviveUnto a thousand springs.
The world shall be his province,The princedom of his skill;The tides shall wear his harness,The winds obey his will;Till neither flood, nor fire, nor frost,Shall work to do him ill.
A creature fit to carryThe pure creative fire,Whatever truth inform him,Whatever good inspire,He shall make lovely in all thingsTo the end of his desire.
In the pure solitude of duskOne star is set to shineAbove the sundown's dying rose,A lamp before a shrine.It is the star of Michael litIn the minster of the sun,That every toiling hand may giveThanks for the day's work done.
For when the almighty word went forthTo bid creation be,—The glimmering star-tracks on the blue,The tide-belts on the sea,—Perfect as planned, from Michael's handThe lasting hills arose,Their bases on the poppied plain,Their peaks in bannered snows.
Cedar and thorn and oak were born;Green fiddleheads uncurledIn the spring woods; gold adder-tonguesCame forth to glad the world;—The magic of the punctual seeds,Each with its pregnant powers,As the lord Michael fashioned themTo keep their days and hours.
Frail fins to ride the monstrous tide,Soft wings to poise and gleam,He formed the pageant tribe by tribeAs vivid as a dream.And still must his beneficenceRenew, create, sustain,Sorcery of the wind and sun,Alchemy of the rain.
Teeming with God, the kindly sodYearns through the summer daysWith the mute eloquence of flowers,Its only means of praise.At dusk and dawn the tranquil hillsThrob to the song of birds,And all the dim blue silence thrillsTo transport not of words.
For earth must breed to spirit's need,Clay to the finer clay,That soul through sense find recompenseAnd rapture on her way.And man, from dust and dreaming wrought,To all things must impartThe trend and likeness of his thought,The passion of his heart.
The love and lore he shall acquireTo word and deed must dare;Resemblances of God his sireHis voice and mien must bear.His children's children shall portrayThe skill which he bestowsOn living; and what life must meanHis craftsman's instinct knows.
Line upon line and tone by tone,The visioned form he givesTo sound and color, wood and stone,Takes loveliness and lives.He sees his project's soaring hopeGrow substance, and expandTo measure a diviner scopeBeneath his patient hand.
To pencil, brush, and burnisherHis wizardry he lends,And to the care of lathe and loomHis secret he commends.In hues and forms and cadencesNew beauty he instills,A brother by the right of craftTo Michael of the hills.
Charlemagne with knight and lord,In the hill at Ingelheim,Slumbers at the council board,Seated waiting for the time.
With their swords across their kneesIn that chamber dimly lit,Chin on breast life effigiesOf the dreaming gods, they sit.
Long ago they went to sleep,While great wars above them hurled.Taking counsel how to keepGiant evil from the world.
Golden-armored, iron-crowned,There in silence they awaitThe last war,—in war renowned,Done with doubting and debate.
What is all our clamor for?Petty virtue, puny crime,Beat in vain against the doorOf the hill at Ingelheim.
When at last shall dawn the dayFor the saving of the world,They will forth in war array,Iron-armored, golden-curled.
In the hill at Ingelheim,Still, they say, the Emperor,Like a warrior in his prime,Waits the message at the door.
Shall the long enduring fightBreak above our heads in vain,Plunged in lethargy and night,Like the men of Charlemagne?
Comrades, through the Council HallOf the heart, inert and dumb,Hear ye not the summoning call,"Up, my lords, the hour is come!"
This is the storyOf Santo Domingo,The first establishedPermanent cityBuilt in the New World.
Miguel Dias,A Spanish sailorIn the fleet of Columbus,Fought with a captain,Wounded him, then in fearFled from his punishment.
Ranging the wilds, he cameOn a secludedIndian villageOf the peace-lovingComely Caguisas.There he found shelter,Food, fire, and hiding,—Welcome unstinted.
Over this tribe ruled—No cunning chieftainGrown gray in world-craft,But a young soft-eyedGirl, tender-hearted,Loving, and regalOnly in beauty,With no suspicionOf the perfidiousMerciless gold-lustOf the white sea-wolves,—Roving, rapacious,Conquerors, destroyers.Strongly the strangerWooed with his foreignManners, his LatinFervor and graces;Beat down her gentle,Unreserved strangeness;
Made himself consortOf a young queen, allLoveliness, ardor,And generous devotion.Her world she gave him,Nothing denied him,All, all for love's sakePoured out before him,—Lived but to pleasureAnd worship her lover.
Such is the wayOf free-hearted women,Radiant beingsWho carry God's secret;All their seraphicUnworldly wisdomSpent without fearingOr calculationFor the enrichmentOf—whom, what, and wherefore?
Ask why the sun shinesAnd is not measured,Ask why the rain fallsAeon by aeon,Ask why the wind comesMaking the strong treesBlossom in springtime,Forever unwearied!Whoever earned these gifts,Air, sun, and water?Whoever earned his shareIn that unfathomedFull benediction,
Passing the old earth'sCunningest knowledge,Greater than allThe ambition of ages,Light as a thistle-seed,Strong as a tide-run,Vast and mysteriousAs the night sky,—The love of woman?Not long did MiguelDias abide contentWith his good fortune.Back to his voyagingTurned his desire,Restless once more to roveWith boon companions,Filled with the covetousThirst for adventure,—The white man's folly.
Then poor Zamcaca,In consternationLest she lack meritWorthy to tetherHis wayward fancy,Knowing no way but love,Guileless, and sedulousOnly to gladden,Quick and sweet-souledAs another madonna,Gave him the secretOf her realm's treasure,—Raw gold unweighed,Stored wealth unimagined;Decked him with trappingsOf that yellow peril;And bade him goBring his comrades to settleIn her dominion.
Not long the SpaniardsStood on that bidding.Gold was their madness,Their Siren and Pandar.Trooping they followedTheir friend the explorer,Greed-fevered ravagersOf all things goodly,Hot-foot to plunderThe land of his love-dream.They swooped on that country,Founded their city,Made Miguel DiasIts first Alcalde,—Flattered and fooled him,Loud in false praisesFor the great wealth he hadBy his love's bounty.
Then the old story,Older than Adam,—Treachery, rapine,Ingratitude, bloodshed,Wrought by the strong manOn unsuspectingAnd gentler brothers.The rabid Spaniard,Christian and ruthless(Like any modernMagnate of Mammon),Harried that fearless,Light-hearted, trustful folkUnder his booted heel.Tears (ah, a woman's tears,—The grief of angels,—)Fell from Zamcaca,Sorrowing, hopeless,Alone, for her people.
Sick from injustice,Distraught, and disheartened,Tortured by sight and soundOf wrong and ruin,When the kind, silent,Tropical moonlight,Lay on the city,In the dead hourWhen the soul tremblesWithin the portalsOf its own province,While far away seem
All deeds of daytime,She rose and wondered;Gazed on the sleepingFace of her loved one,Alien and cruel;Kissed her strange children,Longingly laying a handIn farewell on each,Crept to the door, and fledBack to the forest.
Only the deep heartOf the World-mother,Brooding below the stormsOf human madness,Can know what desolateAnguish possessed her.
Only the far mindOf the World-father,Seeing the mysticEnd and beginning,Knows why the pageantIs so betatteredWith mortal sorrow.
One August day I sat besideA café window open wideTo let the shower-freshened airBlow in across the Plaza, whereIn golden pomp against the darkGreen leafy background of the Park,St. Gaudens' hero, gaunt and grim,Rides on with Victory leading him.
The wet, black asphalt seemed to holdIn every hollow pools of gold,And clouds of gold and pink and grayWere piled up at the end of day,Far down the cross street, where one towerStill glistened from the drenching shower.
A weary, white-haired man went by,Cooling his forehead gratefullyAfter the day's great heat. A girl,Her thin white garments in a swirlBlown back against her breasts and knees,Like a Winged Victory in the breeze,Alive and modern and superb,Crossed from the circle of the curb.
We sat there watching people pass,Clinking the ice against the glassAnd talking idly—books or art,Or something equally apartFrom the essential stress and strifeThat rudely form and further life,Glad of a respite from the heat,When down the middle of the street,Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gayIn spite of the dull-stifling day,Three street-musicians came. The man,With hair and beard as black as Pan,Strolled on one side with lordly grace,While a young girl tugged at a traceUpon the other. And betweenThe shafts there walked a laughing queen,Bright as a poppy, strong and free.What likelier land than ItalyBreeds such abandon? ConfidentAnd rapturous in mere living spentEach moment to the utmost, thereWith broad, deep chest and kerchiefed hair,With head thrown back, bare throat, and waistSupple, heroic and free-laced,Between her two companions walkedThis splendid woman, chaffed and talked,Did half the work, made all the cheerOf that small company.
No fearOf failure in a soul like hersThat every moment throbs and stirsWith merry ardor, virile hope,Brave effort, nor in all its scopeHas room for thought or discontent,Each day its own sufficient ventAnd source of happiness.
WithoutA trace of bitterness or doubtOf life's true worth, she strode at easeBefore those empty palaces,A simple heiress of the earthAnd all its joys by happy birth,Beneficent as breeze or dew,And fresh as though the world were newAnd toil and grief were not. How rareA personality was there!
We painters sometimes strangely keepThese holidays. When life runs deepAnd broad and strong, it comes to makeIts own bright-colored almanack.Impulse and incident divineMust find their way through tone and line;The throb of color and the dreamOf beauty, giving art its themeFrom dear life's daily miracle,Illume the artist's life as well.A bird-note, or a turning leaf,The first white fall of snow, a briefWild song from the Anthology,A smile, or a girl's kindling eye,—And there is worth enough for himTo make the page of history dim.Who knows upon what day may comeThe touch of that deliriumWhich lifts plain life to the divine,And teaches hand the magic lineNo cunning rule could ever reach,Where Soul's necessities find speech?None knows how rapture may arriveTo be our helper, and surviveThrough our essay to help in turnAll starving eager souls who yearnLightward discouraged and distraught.Ah, once art's gleam of glory caughtAnd treasured in the heart, how thenWe walk enchanted among men,And with the elder gods confer!So art is hope's interpreter,And with devotion must conspireTo fan the eternal altar fire.Wherefore you find me here to-day,Not idling the good hours away,But picturing a magic hourWith its replenishment of power.
Conceive a bleak December day,The streets all mire, the sky all gray,And a poor painter trudging homeDisconsolate, when what should comeAcross his vision, but a lineOn a bold-lettered play-house sign,A Persian Sun Dance.
In he turns.A step, and there the desert burnsPurple and splendid; molten goldThe streamers of the dawn unfold,Amber and amethyst uphurledAbove the far rim of the world;The long-held sound of temple bellsOver the hot sand steals and swells;A lazy tom-tom throbs and donesIn barbarous maddening monotones;While sandal incense blue and keenHangs in the air. And then the sceneWakes, and out steps, by rhythm released,The sorcery of all the East,In rose and saffron gossamer,—A young light-hearted worshipperWho dances up the sun. She movesLike waking woodland flower that lovesTo greet the day. Her lithe, brown curveIs like a sapling's sway and swerveBefore the spring wind. Her dark hairFraming a face vivid and rare,Curled to her throat and then flew wild,Like shadows round a radiant child.The sunlight from her cymbals playedAbout her dancing knees, and madeA world of rose-lit ecstasy,Prophetic of the day to be.
Such mystic beauty might have shoneIn Sardis or in Babylon,To bring a Satrap to his doomOr touch some lad with glory's bloom.And now it wrought for me, with sheerEnchantment of the dying year,Its irresistible reprieveFrom joylessness on New Year's Eve.
Here hangs at last, you see, my rowOf sketches,—all I have to showOf one enchanted summer spentIn sweet laborious content,At little 'Sconset by the moors,With the sea thundering by its doors,Its grassy streets, and gardens gayWith hollyhocks and salvia.
And here upon the easel yet,With the last brush of paint still wet,(Showing how inspiration toils),Is one where the white surf-line boilsAlong the sand, and the whole seaLifts to the skyline, just to beThe wondrous background from whose vergeOf blue on blue there should emergeThis miracle.
One day of daysI strolled the silent path that straysBetween the moorlands and the beachFrom Siasconset, till you reachTom Nevers Head, the lone last landThat fronts the ocean, lone and grandAs when the Lord first bade it beFor a surprise and mystery.A sailless sea, a cloudless sky,The level lonely moors, and IThe only soul in all that vastOf color made intense to last!The small white sea-birds piping near;The great soft moor-winds; and the dearBright sun that pales each crest to jade,Where gulls glint fishing unafraid.
Here man, the godlike, might have goneWith his deep thought, on that wild dawnWhen the first sun came from the sea,Glowing and kindling the world to be,While time began and joy had birth,—No wilder sweeter spot on earth!
As I sat there and mused (the wayWe painters waste our time, you say!)On the sheer loneliness and strengthWhence life must spring, there came at lengthConviction of the helplessnessOf earth alone to ban or bless.I saw the huge unhuman sea;I heard the drear monotonyOf the waves beating on the shoreWith heedless, futile strife and roar,Without a meaning or an aim.
And then a revelation came,In subtle, sudden, lovely guise,Like one of those soft mysteriesOf Indian jugglers, who evokeA flower for you out of smoke.I knew sheer beauty without soulCould never be perfection's goal,Nor satisfy the seeking mindWith all it longs for and must findOne day. The lovely things that hauntOur senses with an aching want,And move our souls, are like the fairLost garments of a soul somewhere.Nature is naught, if not the veilOf some great good that must prevailAnd break in joy, as woods of springBreak into song and blossoming.
But what makes that great goodness startWithin ourselves? When leaps the heartWith gladness, only then we knowWhy lovely Nature travails so,—Why art must persevere and prayIn her incomparable way.In all the world the only worthIs human happiness; its dearthThe darkest ill. Let joyance be,And there is God's sufficiency,—Such joy as only can aboundWhere the heart's comrade has been found.
That was my thought. And then the seaBroke in upon my reveryWith clamorous beauty,—the superbEternal noun that takes no verbBut love. The heaven of dove-like blueBent o'er the azure, round and trueAs magic sphere of crystal glass,Where faith sees plain the pageant passOf things unseen. So I beheldThe sheer sky-arches domed and belled,As if the sea were the very floorOf heaven where walked the gods of yoreIn Plato's imagery, and IUplifted saw their pomps go by.
The House of space and time grew tenseAs if with rapture's imminence,When truth should be at last made clear,And the great worth of life appear;While I, a worshipper at the shrine,For very longing grew divine,Borne upward on earth's ecstasy,And welcomed by the boundless sky.
A mighty prescience seemed to broodOver that tenuous solitudeYearning for form, till it becameVivid as dream and live as flame,Through magic art could never match,The vision I have tried to catch,—All earth's delight and meaning grownA lyric presence loved and known.
How otherwise could time evolveYoung courage, or the high resolve,Or gladness to assuage and blessThe soul's austere great loneliness,Than by providing her somehowWith sympathy of hand and brow,And bidding her at last go free,Companioned through eternity?
So there appeared before my eyes,In a beloved, familiar guise,A vivid, questing human faceIn profile, scanning heaven for grace,Up-gazing there against the blueWith eyes that heaven itself shone through;The lips soft-parted, half in prayer,Half confident of kindness there;A brow like Plato's made for dreamIn some immortal Academe,And tender as a happy girl's;A full dark head of clustered curlsRound as an emperor's, where meetRepose and ardor, strong and sweet,Distilling from a mind unmarredThe glory of her rapt regard.
So eager Mary might have stood,In love's adoring attitude,And looked into the angel's eyesWith faith and fearlessness, all wiseIn soul's unfaltering innocence,Sure in her woman's supersenseOf things only the humble know.My vision looks forever so.
In other years when men shall say,"What was the painter's meaning, pray?Why all this vast of sea and space,Just to enframe a woman's face?"Here is the pertinent reply,"What better use for earth and sky?"
The great archangel passed that wayIlluming life with mystic ray.Not Lippo's self nor RaphaelHad lovelier, realer things to tellThan I, beholding far awayHow all the melting rose and grayUpon the purple sea-line leanedAbout that head that intervened.
How real was she? Ah, my friend,In art the fact and fancy blendPast telling. All the painter's taskIs with the glory. Need we askThe tulips breaking through the mouldTo their untarnished age of gold,Whence their ideals were derivedThat have so gloriously survived?Flowers and painters both must giveThe hint they have received, to live,—Spend without stint the joy and powerThat lurk in each propitious hour,—Yet leave the why untold—God's way.
My sketch is all I have to say.
Thou dear and most high Victory,Whose home is the unvanquished sea,Whose fluttering wind-blown garments keepThe very freshness, fold, and sweepThey wore upon the galley's prow,By what unwonted favor nowHast thou alighted in this place,Thou Victory of Samothrace?
O thou to whom in countless landsWith eager hearts and striving handsStrong men in their last need have prayed,Greatly desiring, undismayed,And thou hast been across the fightTheir consolation and their might,Withhold not now one dearer grace,Thou Victory of Samothrace!
Behold, we, too, must cry to thee,Who wage our strife with Destiny,And give for Beauty and for TruthOur love, our valor and our youth.Are there no honors for these thingsTo match the pageantries of kings?Are we more laggard in the raceThan those who fell at Samothrace?
Not only for the bow and sword,O Victory, be thy reward!The hands that work with paint and clayIn Beauty's service, shall not theyAlso with mighty faith prevail?Let hope not die, nor courage fail,But joy come with thee pace for pace,As once long since in Samothrace.
Grant us the skill to shape the formAnd spread the color living-warm,(As they who wrought aforetime did),Where love and wisdom shall lie hid,In fair impassioned types, to swayThe cohorts of the world to-day,In Truth's eternal cause, and traceThy glory down from Samothrace.
With all the ease and splendid poiseOf one who triumphs without noise,Wilt thou not teach us to attainThy sense of power without strain,That we a little may possessOur souls with thy sure loveliness,—That calm the years cannot deface,Thou Victory of Samothrace?
Then in the ancient, ceaseless warWith infamy, go thou before!Amid the shoutings and the drumsLet it be learned that Beauty comes,Man's matchless Paladin to be,Whose rule shall make his spirit freeAs thine from all things mean or base,Thou Victory of Samothrace.
Ah, who will build the city of our dream,Where beauty shall abound and truth avail,With patient love that is too wise for strife,Blending in power as gentle as the rainWith the reviving earth on full spring days?Who now will speed us to its gate of peace,And reassure us on our doubtful road?
Three centuries ago a fearless man,Yearning to set his people in the way,Threw all his royal might into a planTo found an ideal city that should giveFreedom to every instinct for the best,From humblest impulse in his own domainTo rumored wisdom from the world's far ends.Strengthened with ardor from a high resolve,Beneath the patient smile of Indian skiesThis fair dream flourished for a score of years,Until the blight of evil touched its bloomWith fading, and transformed its vivid lifeInto a ghost-flower of its fair design.
Now ruined nursery tower and gay boudoir,A sad custodian of sacred tombs,And scattered feathers from the purple wingsOf doves who reign in undisputed calmOver this Eden of hope and fair essay,Recall the valor of this ancient quest.
Great Akbar,—grandfather of Shah Jehan,The artist Emperor of IndiaWho built the Taj for love of one held dearBeyond all other women in the world,And left that loveliest memorial,The most supreme of wonders wrought by man,To move for very joy all hearts to tearsBeholding how great beauty springs from love,—Akbar the wisest ruler over Ind,Grandson of Babar in whose veins were mixedThe blood of Tamerlane and Chinghiz Khan,Who beat the Afghans and the Rajputs downAt Paniput and Buxar in Bengal,Making himself the lord of Hindustan,And with his restless Tartars founded thereThe Mogul empire with its Moslem faith,Its joyousness, enlightenment, and art,—Akbar of all the sovereigns of the EastIs still most deeply loved and gladly praised.
For he who conquered with so strong a handCabul, Kashmir, and Kandahar, and Sind,Oudh and Orissa, Chitor and Ajmir,With all their wealth to weld them into one,Upholding justice with his sovereigntyThroughout his borders and imposing peace,Was first and last a seeker after truth.
No craven unlaborious truce he sought,But that great peace which only comes with light,Emerging after chaos has been quelledIn some long struggle of enduring will,To be a proof of order and of law,Which cannot rest on falsehood nor on wrong,But spreads like generous sunshine on the earthWhen goodness has been gained and truth made clear,At whatsoe'er incalculable cost.Returning once with his victorious armsAnd war-worn companies on the homeward marchTo Agra and his court's magnificence,From a campaign against some turbulent folk,He came at evening to a quiet placeNear Sikri by the roadside through the woods,Where there were many doves among the trees.
There Salim Chisti a holy man had madeHis lonely dwelling in the wilderness,Seeking perfection. And the solitudeWas sweet to Akbar, and he halted thereAnd went to Salim in his lodge and said,"O man and brother, thy long days are spentIn meditation, seeking for the pathThrough this great world's impediments to peace,Here in the twilight with the holy starsOr when the rose of morning breaks in gold;Tell me, I pray, whence comes the gift of peaceWith all its blessings for a people's need,And how may true tranquillity be foundOn which man's restless spirit longs to rest?"
And Salim answered, "Lord, most readilyIn Allah's out-of-doors, for there men liveMore truly, being free from false constraint,For learning wisdom with a calmer mind.For they who would find peace must conquer fearAnd ignorance and greed,—the ravagersOf spirit, mind, and sense,—and learn to liveContent beneath the shade of Allah's hand.Who worships not his own will shall find peace."
Then Akbar answered, "I have set my heartOn making beauty, truth, and justice shineAs the ordered stars above the darkened earth.Are not these also things to be desired,And striven for with no uncertain toil?And save through them whence comes the gift of peace?"
Then Salim smiled, and with his finger drewIn the soft dust before his door, and said,"O king, thy words are true, thy heart most wise.Thou also shalt find peace, as Allah wills,Through following bravely what to thee seems best.When any question, 'What is peace?' reply,'The shelter of the Gate of Paradise,The shadow of the archway, not the arch,Within whose shade at need the poor may rest,The weary be refreshed, the weak secure,And all men pause to gladden as they go.'"
And Akbar pondered Salim Chisti's words.Then turning to his ministers, he said,"Here will I build my capital, and hereThe world shall come unto a council hall,And in a place of peace pursue the questOf wisdom and the finding out of truth,That there be no more discord upon earth,But only knowledge, beauty, and good will."
And it was done according to Akbar's word.There in the wilderness as by magic roseFuttehpur Sikri, the victorious city,Of marble and red sandstone among the trees,A rose unfolding in the kindling dawn.Palace and mosque and garden and serai,Bazaars and baths and spacious pleasure grounds,By favor of Allah to perfection sprang.
Thus Akbar wrought to make his dream come true.From the four corners of the world he broughtHis master workmen, from Iran and Ind,From wild Mongolia and the Arabian wastes;Masons from Bagdad, Delhi, and Multan;Dome builders from the North, from Samarkand;Cunning mosaic workers from Kanauj;And carvers of inscriptions from Shiraz;And they all labored with endearing skill,Each at his handicraft, to make beauty be.
When the first ax-blade on the timber rang,The timid doves, as if foreboding ill,Had fled from Sikri and its quiet groves.
But as he promised, Akbar sent and badeThe wise men of all nations to his court,Brahman and Christian, Buddhist and Parsee,Jain and stiff Mohammedan and Jew,All followers of the One with many names,Bringing the ghostly wisdom of the earth.
And so they came of every hue and creed.From the twelve winds of heaven their caravansDrew into Sikri as Akbar summoned them,To spend long afternoons in council grave,Sifting tradition for the seed of truth,In the great mosque in Futtehpur at peace.And Salim Chisti lived his holy life,Beloved and honored there as Akbar's friend.
But light and changeable are the hearts of men.Soon in that city dedicate to peaceDissensions spread and rivalries grew rife,Envy and bitterness and strife returnedOnce more, and truth before them fled away.Then Salim Chisti, coming to Akbar spoke,"Lord, give thy servant leave now to departAnd follow where the fluttered wings have gone,For here there is no longer any peace,And truth cannot prevail where discord dwells."
"Nay then," said Akbar, "'tis not thou but IWho am the servant here and must go hence.I found thee master of this solitude,Lord of the princedom of a quiet mind,A sovereign vested in tranquillity,And I have done thee wrong and stayed thy feetFrom following perfection, with my hordeOf turbulent malcontents; and my loved dreamTo build a city of abiding peaceWas but a vain illusion. Therefore nowThis foolish people shall be driven forthFrom this fair place, to live as they may chooseIn disputance and wrangling longer still,Until they learn, if Allah wills it so,To lay aside their folly for the truth."
And as the king commanded, so it was.More quickly than he came, with all his courtAnd hosts of followers he went away,Leaving the place to solitude once more,—A rose to wither where it once had blown.
To-day the all-kind unpolluted sunShines through the marble fret-work with no sound;The winds play hide and seek through corridorsWhere stately women with dark glowing eyesHave laughed and frolicked in their fluttering robes;The rose leaves drop with none to gather them,In gardens where no footfall comes with eve,Nor any lovers watch the rising moon;And ancient silence, truer than all speech,Still holds the secrets of the Council Hall,Upon whose walls frescoes of many faithsAttest the courtesy of open minds.
Before the last camp-follower was gone,The doves returned and took up their abodeIn the main gate of those deserted walls.And in their custody this "Gate of Peace"Bears still the grandeur of its origin,Firing anew the wistful hearts of menTo brave endeavor with replenished hope,Though since that time three hundred years ago,The magic hush of those forsaken streetsAnd empty courtyards has been undisturbedSave by the gentle whirring of grey wings,With cooing murmurs uttered all day long,And reverent tread of those from near and far,Who still pursue the immemorial quest.